THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 SKETCH BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 
 
 " I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A 
 mere spectator of other men s fortunes and adventures, and how 
 they play their parts; which, methinks, are diversely presented unto 
 oie, as from a common theatre or scene." 
 
 Bunroy. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 
 
 1821.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY C. ROWOHTII, BELL YABD, 
 TEMPLE BARi
 
 v. l 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 THIS WORK 
 
 IS DEDICATED, 
 
 IN TESTIMONY OF THE 
 
 ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 a2
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE following desultory papers are part 
 of a series written in this country, but pub 
 lished in America. The author is aware 
 of the austerity with which the writings of 
 his countrymen have hitherto been treated 
 by British critics : he is conscious, too, 
 that much of the contents of his papers can 
 be interesting only in the eyes of American 
 readers. It was not his intention, there 
 fore, to have them reprinted in this country. 
 He has, however, observed several of them 
 from time to time inserted in periodical 
 works of merit, and has understood that it
 
 VI 
 
 was probable they would be republished 
 in- a collective form. He has been in 
 duced, therefore, to revise and bring them 
 forward himself, that they may at least 
 come correctly before the public. Should 
 they be deemed of sufficient importance 
 to attract the attention of critics, he solicits 
 for them that courtesy and candour which 
 a stranger has some right to claim, who 
 presents himself at the threshold of a hos 
 pitable nation. 
 
 February, 1820.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 I AGE 
 
 THE AUTHOR S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 1 
 
 THE VOYAGE 7 
 
 ROSCOE 17 
 
 THE WIFE 29 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 41 
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 73 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 91 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART 105 
 
 THE ART OF BOOK MAKING 117 
 
 A ROYAL POET 131 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH 157 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON 169 
 
 THE BOAR S HEAD TAVERN 183 
 
 THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 205 
 
 RURAL FUNERALS 225 
 
 THE INN KITCHEN 247 
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 253 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 279
 
 THE 
 
 AUTHOR S ACCOUNT 
 
 HIMSELF. 
 
 " I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile tliat crept out of her shel 
 was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to 
 sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time 
 transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion 
 with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 
 
 LILY S EUPHUES. 
 
 I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and ob 
 serving strange characters and manners. Even 
 when a mere child I began my travels, and made 
 many tours of discovery into foreign parts and un 
 known regions of my native city, to the frequent 
 alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the 
 town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended 
 the range of my observations. My holiday after 
 noons were spent in rambles about the surrounding 
 country. I made myself familiar with alj its places 
 n
 
 4 THE AUTHOR S 
 
 share of them. I have mingled among them in my 
 time, and been almost withered by the shade into 
 which they cast me; for there is nothing so baleful to 
 a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly 
 the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see the 
 great men of Europe; for I had read in the works 
 of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated 
 in America, and man among the number. A great 
 man of Europe, thought I, must therefore, be as 
 superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the 
 Alps to a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea 
 I was confirmed, by observing the comparative im 
 portance and swelling magnitude of many English 
 travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very 
 little people in their own country. I will visit this 
 land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic 
 race from which I am degenerated. 
 
 It has been either my good or evil lot to have 
 my roving passion gratified. I have wandered 
 through different countries, and witnessed many of 
 the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have 
 studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but 
 rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble 
 lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of 
 one print shop to another; caught sometimes by the 
 delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions 
 of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of 
 landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists
 
 ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. O 
 
 to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their port 
 folios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up 
 a few for the entertainment of my friends. When, 
 however, I look over the hints and memorandums 
 I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost 
 fails me at finding how my idle humour has led me 
 aside from the great objects studied by every regu 
 lar traveller who would make a book. I fear I 
 shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
 landscape painter, who had travelled on the conti 
 nent, but following the bent of his vagrant inclina 
 tion, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and bye- 
 places. His sketch book was accordingly crowded 
 with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins; 
 but he had neglected to paint St. Peter s, or the 
 Coliseum; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Na 
 ples ; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his 
 whole collection.
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 Ships, ships, I will descric you 
 
 Amidst the main, 
 I will come and try you 
 \Vhat you are protecting, 
 And projecting, 
 
 What s your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandize and trading, 
 Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
 A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
 Hallo ! my faucie, whither wilt thou go ? 
 
 OLD POEM. 
 
 To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage 
 he has to make is an excellent preparative. The 
 temporary absence of worldly scenes and employ 
 ments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to 
 receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space 
 of waters that separates the hemispheres, is like a 
 blank page in existence. There is no gradual 
 transition by which, as in Europe, the features and 
 population- of one country blend almost imper 
 ceptibly with those of another. From the moment 
 you lose sight of the land you have left, all is
 
 8 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and 
 are launched at once into the bustle and novelties 
 of another world. 
 
 In travelling by land there is a continuity of 
 scene, and a connected succession of persons and 
 incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen 
 the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it 
 is true, " a lengthening chain" at each remove of 
 our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken: we can 
 trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last 
 of them still grapples us to home. But a wide sea 
 voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious 
 of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of 
 settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. 
 It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, 
 between us and our homes a gulf subject to tem 
 pest, and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance 
 palpable, and return precarious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As 
 I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away 
 like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had 
 closed one volume of the world and its concerns, 
 and had time for meditation, before I opened ano 
 ther. That land, too, now vanishing from my 
 view, which contained all that was most dear to me 
 in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it what 
 changes might take place in me, before I should 
 it again. Who can tell when he sets forth to
 
 THE VOYAOK. 9 
 
 wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain 
 currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or 
 whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes 
 of his childhood ? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct 
 the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, 
 and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage 
 
 full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are 
 the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather 
 tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I 
 delighted to loll over the quarter railing, or climb 
 to the main top, of a calm day, and muse for hours 
 together on the tranquil bosom of a summer s sea ; 
 to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peer 
 ing above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, 
 and people them with a creation of my own ; to 
 watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their 
 silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy 
 shores. 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of mingled secu 
 rity and awe with which I looked down, from my 
 giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their 
 uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling 
 about the bow of the ship; the grampus slowly 
 heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the 
 ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the 
 blue waters. My imagination would conjure up 
 all that I had heard or read of the watery world
 
 10 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fa 
 thomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that 
 lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and 
 of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fish 
 ermen and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge 
 of the ocean, would be another theme of idle specu 
 lation. How interesting this fragment of a world, 
 hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence. 
 What a glorious monument of human invention ! 
 that has thus triumphed over wind and wave ; has 
 brought the ends of the world into communion ; has 
 established an interchange of blessings, pouring into 
 the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of 
 the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and 
 the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound 
 together those scattered portions of the human race, 
 between which nature seemed to have thrown an 
 insurmountable barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object 
 drifting at a distance. At sea, every thing that 
 breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse, 
 attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a 
 ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for 
 there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which 
 some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 
 spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 
 There was no trace by which the name of the ship
 
 THE- VOYAGE. 11 
 
 could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently 
 drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell 
 fish had fastened about it, and long sea weeds 
 flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the 
 crew ? Their struggle has long been over they 
 have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest 
 their bones lie whitening among the caverns of 
 the deep. Silence oblivion, like the waves, have 
 closed over them, and no one can tell the story of 
 their end. What sighs have been wafted after that 
 ship ; what prayers offered up at the deserted fire 
 side of home ! How often has the mistress, the 
 wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to 
 catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the 
 deep. How has expectation darkened into anxiety 
 anxiety into dread and dread into despair! 
 Alas ! not one memento shall ever return for love 
 to cherish. All that shall ever be known, is, that she 
 sailed from her port, " and was never heard of more !" 
 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to 
 many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the 
 case in the evening, when the weather, which had 
 hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threaten 
 ing, and gave indications of one of those sudden 
 storms that will sometimes break in upon the se 
 renity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the 
 dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the 
 gloom, more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship-
 
 12 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with 
 a short one related by the captain. 
 
 " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout 
 ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of 
 those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered 
 it impossible for us to see far a-head, even in the 
 day time ; but at night the weather was so thick 
 that we could not distinguish any object at twice 
 the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast 
 head, and a constant watch forward to look out for 
 fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at an 
 chor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smack 
 ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate through 
 the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 
 a sail a-head ! it was scarcely uttered before we 
 were upon her. She was a small schooner, at an 
 chor, with her broadside towards us. The crew 
 were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. 
 We struck her just a-mid-ships. The force, the 
 size, and weight of our vessel bore her down be 
 low the waves ; we passed over her and were 
 hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was 
 sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three 
 half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin : they 
 just started from their beds to be swallowed shriek 
 ing by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
 mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to 
 our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall
 
 THE VOYAGE. IS 
 
 never forget that cry ! It was some time before we 
 could put the ship about, she was under such head^ 
 way. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, 
 to the place where the smack had anchored. We 
 cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. 
 We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear 
 the halloo of any survivors ; but all was silent we 
 never saw or heard any thing of them more !" 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to 
 all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the 
 night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confu 
 sion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing 
 waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. 
 At times the black volume of clouds over head 
 seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that 
 quivered along the foaming billows, and made the 
 succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders 
 bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were 
 echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As 
 I saw the ship staggering and plunging among 
 these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that 
 she regained her balance, or preserved her buoy 
 ancy. Her yards would dip into the water ; her 
 bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Some 
 times an impending surge appeared ready to over 
 whelm her, and nothing but a dextrous movement 
 of the helm preserved her from the shock. 
 
 When I retired to my cabin the awful scene still
 
 14 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 followed me. The whistling of the wind through 
 the riffling sounded like funereal waitings. The 
 
 oO O 
 
 creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of 
 bulk heads, as the ship laboured in the weltering 
 sea were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing 
 along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very 
 ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this 
 floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere 
 starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam might give 
 him entrance. 
 
 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and fa 
 vouring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections 
 to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening 
 influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When 
 the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
 swelled, and careering gaily over the curling waves, 
 how lofty, how gallant she appears how she seems 
 to lord it over the deep ! I might fill a volume with 
 the reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is almost 
 a continual reverie but it is time to get to shore. 
 
 It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling 
 cry of " land!" was given from the mast head. 
 None but those who have experienced it, can form 
 an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which 
 rush into an American s bosom, when he first comes 
 in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associa 
 tions with the very name. It is the land of pro 
 mise, teeming with everv thing of which his child-
 
 THE VOYAGE. 15 
 
 hood has heard, or on which his studious years have 
 pondered. 
 
 From that time until the moment of arrival, it 
 was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, 
 that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; 
 the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the 
 channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the 
 clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As 
 we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores 
 with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on 
 neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green 
 grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey 
 overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village 
 church rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill 
 all were characteristic of England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favourable, that the 
 ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It 
 was thronged with people ; some idle lookers-on, 
 others eager expectants of friends or relatives. I 
 could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship 
 was consigned. I knew him by his calculating 
 brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into 
 his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and 
 walking to and fro, a small space having been ac 
 corded him by the crowd, in deference to his tem 
 porary importance. There were repeated cheerings 
 and salutations interchanged between the shore and 
 the ship, as friends happened to recognize each
 
 18 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 other. I particularly noticed one young woman of 
 humble dress, but interesting demeanour. She was 
 leaning forward from among the crowd ; her eye 
 hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch 
 some wished-for countenance. She seemed disap 
 pointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice 
 call her name. It was from a poor sailor, who had 
 been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sym 
 pathy of every one on board. When the weather 
 was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for 
 him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had 
 so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, 
 and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife 
 before he died. He had been helped on deck as 
 we came up the river, and was now leaning against 
 the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, 
 so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of 
 affection did not recognize him. But at the sound 
 of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, 
 at once, a whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her 
 hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing 
 them in silent agony. 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of 
 acquaintances the greetings of friends the con 
 sultations of men of business. I alone was soli 
 tary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering 
 to receive. I stepped upon the land of my fore 
 fathers but felt that I was a stranger in the land.
 
 ROSCOE. 
 
 In the service of mankind to be 
 
 A guardian god below; still to employ 
 The mind s brave ardour in heroic aims, 
 Such as may raise us o er the groveling herd, 
 And make us shine for ever that is life. 
 
 THOMPSON. 
 
 ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken 
 in Liverpool, is the Athenaeum. It is established 
 on a liberal and judicious plan; contains a good 
 library, and spacious reading room, and is the great 
 literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour 
 you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave 
 looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
 of newspapers. 
 
 As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, 
 my attention was attracted to a person just entering 
 the room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a 
 form that might once have been commanding, but 
 it was a little bowed by time perhaps by care. 
 He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a 
 head that \vould have pleased a painter; and though 
 
 VOL. i. c
 
 18 ROSCOE. 
 
 some slight furrows on his brow showed that 
 wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye 
 still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There 
 was something in his whole appearance that indi 
 cated a being of a different order from the bustling 
 race around him. 
 
 I inquired his name, and was informed that it was 
 ROSCOE. I drew back with an involuntary feeling 
 of veneration. This, then, was an author of cele 
 brity ; this W 7 as one of those men, whose voices 
 have gone forth to the ends of the earth; with 
 whose minds I have communed even in the soli 
 tudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our 
 country, to know European writers only by their 
 works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other 
 men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and 
 jostling with the crowd of common minds in the 
 dusty paths of life. They pass before our imagi 
 nations like superior beings, radiant with the ema 
 nations of their own genius, and surrounded by a 
 halo of literary glory. 
 
 To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the 
 Medici, mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at 
 first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the 
 very circumstances and situation in which he has 
 been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest 
 claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice 
 how some minds seem almost to create themselves,
 
 ROSCOE. 19 
 
 springing up under every disadvantage, and working 
 their solitary but irresistible way through a thou 
 sand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disap 
 pointing the assiduities of art, with which it would 
 rear legitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in 
 the vigour and luxuriance of her chance produc 
 tions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the 
 winds, and though some may perish among the 
 stony places of the world, and some be choked by 
 the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others 
 will now and then strike root even in the clefts of 
 the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
 spread over their sterile birth-place all the beauties 
 of vegetation. 
 
 Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born 
 in a place apparently ungenial to the growth of lite 
 rary talent; in the very market place of trade; with 
 out fortune, family connections, or patronage ; self 
 prompted, self sustained, and almost self taught, he 
 has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to 
 eminence, and, having become one of the orna 
 ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of 
 his talents and influence to advance and embellish 
 his native town. 
 
 Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which 
 
 has given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and 
 
 induced me particularly to point him out to my 
 
 countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, 
 
 c2
 
 20 ROSCOE. 
 
 he is but one among the many distinguished authors 
 of this intellectual nation. They, however, in gene 
 ral, live but for their own fame, or their own plea 
 sures. Their private history presents no lesson to 
 the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human 
 frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone 
 to steal away from the bustle and common-place of 
 busy existence; to indulge in the selfishness of let 
 tered ease; and to revel in scenes of mental, but 
 exclusive, enjoyment. 
 
 Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none 
 of the accorded privileges of talent. He has shut 
 himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysium of 
 fancy; but has gone forth into the highways and 
 thoroughfares of life; he has planted bowers by the 
 way side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the 
 sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where 
 the labouring man may turn aside from the dust and 
 heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of 
 knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life/ 
 on which mankind may meditate and grow better. 
 It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because 
 inimitable, example of excellence; but presents a 
 picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, 
 which are within every man s reach, but which not 
 many exercise, or this world would be a paradise. 
 
 But his private life is peculiarly worthy the atten 
 tion of the citizens of our young and busy country,
 
 ROSCOE. 21 
 
 where literature and the elegant arts must grow up 
 side by side with the coarser plants of daily neces 
 sity; and must depend for their culture, not on the 
 exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the 
 quickening rays of titled patronage, but on hours 
 and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly 
 interests by intelligent and public spirited indivi 
 duals. 
 
 He has shown how much may be done for a place 
 in hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how 
 completely it can give its own impress to surround 
 ing objects. Like his own Lorenzo De Medici, 
 on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a 
 pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the 
 history of his life with the history of his native 
 town, and has made the foundations of its fame the 
 monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in 
 Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all 
 that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of 
 wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffic; he 
 has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the 
 gardens of literature. By his own example and 
 constant exertions, he has effected that union of 
 commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so elo 
 quently recommended in one of his latest writings ;* 
 and has practically proved how beautifully they may 
 
 * Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
 C o
 
 22 KOSCOE; 
 
 be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. 
 The noble institutions for literary and scientific 
 purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, 
 and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, 
 have mostly been originated, and have all been ef 
 fectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we 
 consider the rapidly increasing opulence and mag 
 nitude of that town, which promises to vie in com 
 mercial importance with the metropolis, it will.be 
 perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental 
 improvement among its inhabitants he has effected 
 a great benefit to the cause of British literature. 
 
 In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the 
 author in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; 
 and I was told of his having been unfortunate in 
 business. I could not pity him, as I heard some 
 rich men do. I considered him far above the reach 
 of my pity. Those w r ho live only for the world, and 
 in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of 
 adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be over 
 come by the mutations of fortune. They do but 
 drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; 
 to the superior society of his own thoughts ; which 
 the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and 
 to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. 
 He is independent of the world around him. He 
 lives with antiquity and with posterity ; with anti 
 quity, in the sweet communion of studious retire-
 
 HOSCOE. 23 
 
 meat ; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings 
 after future renown. The solitude of such a mind 
 is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited 
 by those elevated meditations which are the proper 
 aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent 
 from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 
 
 While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, 
 it was my fortune to light on farther traces of Mr. 
 Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to 
 view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, 
 through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. 
 After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious 
 mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It 
 was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of ele 
 gance, and the situation was delightful. A fine 
 lawn sloped away from it studded with clumps of 
 trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country 
 into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen 
 winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an 
 expanse of green meadow land, while the Welsh 
 mountains, blending with clouds, and melting into 
 distance, bordered the horizon. 
 
 This was Roscoe s favourite residence during the 
 days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of 
 elegant hospitality and literary retirement. The 
 house was now silent and deserted. I saw the 
 windows of the study, which looked out upon the 
 soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were 
 c 4
 
 24 ROSCOE. 
 
 closed the library was gone. Two or three ill- 
 favoured beings were loitering about the place, 
 whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. 
 It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had 
 once swelled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but 
 finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad 
 brooding over the shattered marbles. 
 
 I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe s library, 
 which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, 
 from many of which he had drawn the materials for 
 his Italian histories. It had passed under the ham 
 mer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the 
 country. The good people of the vicinity thronged 
 like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel 
 that had been driven on shore. Did such, a scene 
 admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine 
 something whimsical in this strange irruption into 
 the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the 
 armoury of a giant, and contending for the posses 
 sion of weapons which they could not wield. We 
 might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, 
 debating with calculating brow over the quaint 
 binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete au 
 thor ; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with 
 which some successful purchaser attempted to dive 
 into the black-letter bargain he had secured. 
 
 It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Ros-, 
 coe s misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to in-
 
 ROSCOE. ,2 
 
 terest the studious mind, that the parting with his 
 books seems to have touched upon his tenderest 
 feelings, and to have been the only circumstance 
 that could provoke the notice of his muse. The 
 scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet elo 
 quent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent 
 hours become in the season of adversity. When all 
 that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only 
 retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, 
 and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid 
 civility and common-place, these only continue the 
 unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer 
 us with that true friendship which never deceived 
 hope, nor deserted sorrow. 
 
 I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the 
 people of Liverpool had been properly sensible of 
 what was due to Mr. Roscoe and to themselves, his 
 library would never have been sold. Good worldly 
 reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circum 
 stance, which it would be difficult to combat with 
 others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it cer 
 tainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom 
 occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under 
 misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most 
 expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is diffi 
 cult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly 
 who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled 
 and confounded with other men. His great quali-
 
 yO KOSCOE. 
 
 ties lose their novelty, and we become too familiar 
 with the common materials which form the basis 
 even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Ros- 
 coe s townsmen may regard him merely as a man of 
 business ; others as a politician ; all find him en 
 gaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and 
 surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points 
 of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unos 
 tentatious simplicity of character, which gives the 
 nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to 
 be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not 
 know that true worth is always void of glare and 
 pretension. But the man of letters who speaks of 
 Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. 
 The intelligent traveller who visits it, inquires 
 where Roscoe is to be seen. He is the literary 
 land-mark of the place, indicating its existence to 
 the distant scholar. He is, like Pompey s column 
 at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. 
 
 The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe 
 to his books on parting with them, is alluded to in 
 the preceding article. If any thing can add effect 
 to the pure feeling and elevated thought here dis-
 
 KOSCOE. 27 
 
 played, it is the conviction, that the whole is no 
 effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the 
 writer s heart : 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
 Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
 To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 
 
 And tempers, as he may, affliction s dart ; 
 
 Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
 
 Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 
 
 For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
 
 THE WIFE 
 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Lock d up in woman s love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth.. . 
 The violet bed s not sweeter. 
 
 MIDDLETOX. 
 
 I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude 
 with which women sustain the most overwhelming 
 reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break 
 down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the 
 dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer 
 sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
 character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
 Nothing can be more touching than to behold a 
 soft and tender female, who had been all weak 
 ness and dependence, and alive to every trivial 
 roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of 
 life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the com 
 forter and supporter of her husband under mis-
 
 30 THE WIFE. 
 
 fortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, 
 the bitterest blasts of adversity. 
 
 As the vine which has long twined its grace 
 ful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into 
 sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by 
 the thunder bolt, cling round it with its caressing 
 tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it 
 beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, 
 who is the mere dependant and ornament of man 
 in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace 
 when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding her 
 self into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly 
 supporting the drooping head, and binding up the 
 broken heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, who had 
 around him a blooming family, knit together in the 
 strongest affection. " I can wish you no better 
 lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a 
 wife and children. If you are prosperous, there 
 they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there 
 they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have 
 observed that a married man falling into misfortune 
 is more apt to .retrieve his situation in the world 
 than a single one ; partly because he is more sti 
 mulated to exertion by the necessities of the help 
 less and beloved beings who depend upon him for 
 subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits are 
 soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and 
 his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though
 
 THE WIFE. 31 
 
 all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is 
 still a little world of love at home, of which he is 
 the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run 
 to waste and self neglect; to fancy himself lonely 
 and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like 
 some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 
 
 These observations call to mind a little domestic 
 story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate 
 friend Leslie had married a beautiful and accom 
 plished girl, who had been brought up in the midst 
 of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, 
 but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted 
 in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 
 pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes 
 and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about 
 the sex. " Her life," said he, " shall be like a 
 fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in their characters pro 
 duced an harmonious combination : he was of a 
 romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she was all 
 life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute 
 rapture with which he would gaze upon her in 
 company, of which her sprightly powers made her 
 the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her 
 eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she 
 sought favour and acceptance. When leaning on 
 his arm her slender form contrasted finely with 
 liistall manly person. The fond confiding air with
 
 3 THE WIFE. 
 
 which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a 
 flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tender 
 ness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for its 
 very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward 
 on the flowery path of early and well-suited mar 
 riage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 
 
 It was the mishap of my friend, however, to 
 have embarked his fortune in large speculations ; 
 and he had not been married many months, when, 
 by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept 
 from him, and he found himself reduced almost to 
 penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, 
 and went about with a haggard countenance, and a 
 breaking heart. His life was but a protracted 
 agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable 
 was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the pre 
 sence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself 
 to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, how 
 ever, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was 
 not well with him. She marked his altered looks 
 and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his 
 sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She 
 tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blan 
 dishments to win him back to happiness; but she 
 only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The 
 more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing 
 was the thought that he was soon to make her 
 wretched. A little while, thought he, and the
 
 THE WIFE. 33 
 
 smile will vanish from that cheek the song will 
 die away from those lips the lustre of those eyes 
 will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy 
 heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will 
 be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and 
 miseries of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day and related his 
 whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. 
 When I had heard him through, I inquired, " does 
 your wife know all this t" At the question he 
 burst into an agony of tears. " For God s sake !" 
 cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don t men 
 tion my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives 
 me almost to madness !" 
 
 "And why not?" said I. "She must know it 
 sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, 
 and the intelligence may break upon her in a more 
 startling manner, than if imparted by yourself; for 
 the accents of those we Jove soften the harshest 
 tidings. Besides you are depriving yourself of the 
 comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but 
 also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts 
 together an unreserved community of thought and 
 feeling. She will soon perceive that something is 
 secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will 
 not brook reserve: it feels undervalued and out 
 raged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are 
 concealed from it." 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE WIFE. 
 
 " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I 
 am to give to all her future prospects how I am 
 to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her 
 that her husband is a beggar! that she is to forego 
 all the elegancies of life all the pleasures of 
 society to shrink with me into indigence and ob 
 scurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down 
 from the sphere in which she might have continued 
 to move in constant brightness the light of every 
 eye the admiration of every heart! How can she 
 bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the 
 refinements of opulence. How can she bear neg 
 lect? she has been the idol of society. Oh, it will 
 break her heart it will break her heart! " 
 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have 
 its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When 
 his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed 
 into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, 
 and urged him to break his situation at once to his 
 wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi 
 tively. 
 
 " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is 
 necessary she should know it, that you may take 
 the steps proper to the alteration of your circum 
 stances. You must change your style of living 
 
 nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte 
 nance, " don t let that afflict you. I am sure you 
 have never placed your happiness in outward
 
 THE WIFE. 35 
 
 show you have yet friends, warm friends, who 
 will not think the worse of you for being less splen 
 didly lodged: and surely it does not require a palace 
 to be happy with Mary " 
 
 " I could be happy with her," cried he, convul 
 sively, " in a hovel! I could go down with her 
 
 into poverty and the dust! I could I could 
 
 God bless her! God bless her!" cried he, bursting 
 into a transport of grief and tenderness. 
 
 " And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping 
 up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe 
 me, she can be the same with you. Aye, more: it 
 will be a source of pride and triumph to her it 
 will call forth all the latent energies and fervent 
 sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to 
 prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in 
 every true woman s heart a spark of heavenly fire, 
 which lies dormant in the broad daylight of pro 
 sperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes 
 in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows 
 what the wife of his bosom is no man knows what 
 a ministering angel she is until he has gone with 
 her through the fiery trials of this world." 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of my 
 manner, and the figurative style of my language, 
 that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I 
 knew the auditor I had to deal with; and following 
 up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
 D2
 
 3(J, THE WIFEr 
 
 suading him to go home and unburden his sad heart 
 to his wife. 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I 
 felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can 
 calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life 
 has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits 
 might revolt at the dark downward path of low 
 humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might 
 cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
 revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is ac 
 companied by so many galling mortifications, to 
 which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In short, I 
 could not meet Leslie the next morning without 
 trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 
 
 " And how did she bear it?" 
 
 " Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief 
 to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, 
 and asked if this was all that had lately made me 
 unhappy. But, poor girl/ added he, " she cannot 
 realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
 idea of poverty but in the abstract : she has only 
 read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She 
 feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of ac 
 customed conveniences nor elegancies. When we 
 come practically to experience its sordid cares, its 
 paltry wants, its petty humiliations then will be 
 the real trial." 
 
 ".But," said I, " now that you have got over the
 
 THE WIFE. 37 
 
 severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner 
 you let the world into the secret the better. The 
 disclosure may be mortifying; but then it is a single 
 misery, and soon over: whereas you otherwise suf 
 fer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is 
 not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a 
 ruined man the struggle between a proud mind 
 and an empty purse the keeping up a hollow show 
 that must soon come to an end. Have the courage 
 to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharp 
 est sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly 
 prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as 
 to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to 
 their altered fortunes. 
 
 Some days afterwards he called upon me in the 
 evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, 
 and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles 
 from town. He had been busied all day in sending 
 out furniture. The new establishment required 
 few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All 
 the splendid furniture of his late residence had 
 been sold, excepting his wife s harp. That, he said, 
 was too closely associated with the idea of herself; 
 it belonged to the little story of their loves; for 
 some of the sweetest moments of their courtship 
 were those when he had leaned over that instru 
 ment, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. 
 I could jiot but smije at this instance of -romantic 
 gallantry in a doating husband. 
 D3
 
 38 THE WIFE. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where his 
 wife had been all day superintending its arrange 
 ment. My feelings had become strongly interested 
 in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a 
 fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 
 
 He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and 
 as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 " Poor Mary !" at length, broke, with a heavy 
 sigh, from his lips. 
 
 " And what of her," asked I, " has any thing 
 happened to her ?" 
 
 " What," said he, darting an impatient glance, 
 " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situa 
 tion -to be caged in a miserable cottage to be 
 obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her 
 wretched habitation ?" 
 
 " Has she then repined at the change ?" 
 
 " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness 
 and good humour. Indeed, she seems in better 
 spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been 
 to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort !" 
 
 " Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call 
 yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich 
 you never knew the boundless treasures of excel 
 lence you possessed in that woman." 
 
 " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the 
 cottage were over, I think I could then be comfort 
 able. But this is her first day of real experience :
 
 THE WIFE. 39 
 
 she has been introduced into a humble dwelling 
 she has been employed all day in arranging its 
 miserable equipments she has, for the first time, 
 known the fatigues of domestic employment she 
 has, for the first time, looked around her on a home 
 destitute of every thing elegant, almost of every 
 thing convenient ; and may now be sitting down, 
 exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect 
 of future poverty." 
 
 There was a degree of probability in this picture 
 that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in 
 silence. 
 
 After turning from the main road up a narrow 
 lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it 
 a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the 
 cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance 
 for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing 
 rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with 
 a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their 
 branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several 
 pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, 
 and on the grass plot in front. A small wicket 
 gate opened upon a footpath that wound through 
 some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approach 
 ed, we heard the sound of music Leslie grasped 
 my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary s 
 voice singing, in a style of the most touching sim 
 plicity, a little air of which her husband was pecu 
 liarly fond. 
 
 D 4
 
 40 TPE WIFE. 
 
 I felt Leslie s hand tremble on my arm. He 
 stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step 
 made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beau 
 tiful face glanced out at the window and vanished 
 a light footstep was heard and Mary came 
 tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural 
 dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in 
 her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her 
 whole countenance beamed with smiles I had 
 never seen her look so lovely. 
 
 " My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad 
 you are come ! I have been watching and watching 
 for you ; and running down the lane, and looking 
 out for you, I ve set out a table under a beautiful 
 tree behind the cottage ; and I ve been gathering 
 some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know 
 you are fond of them- and we have such excellent 
 cream and every thing is so sweet and still here 
 Oh !" said she, putting her arm within his, and 
 looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be 
 so happy !" 
 
 Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her 
 to his bosom he folded his arms round her he 
 kissed her again and again he could not speak, 
 but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
 often assured me that though the world has since 
 gone prosperously with him, and his life has, indeed, 
 been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a 
 moment of such unutterable felicity.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE.
 
 [The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
 late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New 
 York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the 
 province, and the manners of the descendants from its 
 primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, 
 did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the 
 former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics ; 
 whereas he found the old burgers, and still more their 
 wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true 
 history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a 
 genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed 
 farm house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon 
 it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it 
 with the zeal of a book -worm. 
 
 The result of all these researches was a history of the 
 province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which 
 he published some years since. There have been various 
 opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to 
 tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its 
 chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a 
 little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since 
 been completely established ; and it is now admitted into 
 all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable au 
 thority. 
 
 The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of 
 his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do 
 much harm to his memory to say, that his time might
 
 ( 44 ) 
 
 have been much better employed in weightier labours. 
 He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; 
 and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little 
 in the eyes of his neighbours, and grieve the spirit of 
 some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and 
 affection ; yet his errors and follies are remembered 
 " more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be sus 
 pected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But 
 however his memoiy may be appreciated by critics, it is 
 still held dear among many folk, whose good opinion is 
 well worth having ; particularly certain biscuit bakers, 
 who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their 
 new year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for 
 immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a 
 Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne s farthing.]
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDHICH KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 
 
 Truth is a tiling that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto tliylke day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson 
 must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They 
 are a dismembered branch of the great Appala 
 chian family, and are seen away to the west of the 
 river, swelling up to a noble height and lording it 
 over the surrounding country. Every change of 
 season, every change of weather, indeed every hour 
 of the day, produces some change in the magical 
 hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are 
 regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as 
 perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and 
 settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and 
 print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ;
 
 46 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is 
 cloudless, they will gather a hood of grey vapours 
 about their summits, which, in the last rays of the 
 setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
 glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager 
 may have descried the light smoke curling up from 
 a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the 
 trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt 
 away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. 
 It is a little village of great antiquity, having been 
 founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the 
 early times of the province, just about the begin 
 ning of the government of the good Peter Stuyve- 
 sant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some 
 of the houses of the original settlers standing within 
 a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought 
 from Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
 fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very 
 houses, (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly 
 time worn and weather beaten,) there lived many 
 years since, while the country was yet a province of 
 Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the 
 name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant 
 of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the 
 chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accom 
 panied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 4? 
 
 inherited, however, but little of the martial character 
 of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a 
 simple, good natured man; he was, moreover, a 
 kind neighbour, and an obedient hen-pecked hus 
 band. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 
 owing that meekness of spirit which gained him 
 such universal popularity ; for those men are most 
 apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who 
 are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their 
 tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and mallea 
 ble in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and 
 a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the 
 world for teaching the virtues of patience and long 
 suffering. A termagant wife may therefore, in some 
 respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and if 
 so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among 
 all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with 
 the amiable sex, took his part in all family squab 
 bles ; and never failed, whenever they talked those 
 matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay 
 all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children 
 of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever 
 he approached. He assisted at their sports, made 
 their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot 
 marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
 witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging 
 about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of
 
 48 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, 
 and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; 
 and not a dog would bark at him throughout the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip s composition was an in 
 superable aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. 
 It could not be from the want of assiduity or per 
 severance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a 
 rod as long and heavy as a Tartar s lance, and fish 
 all day without a murmur, even though he should 
 not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would 
 carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for hours to- 1 
 gether, trudging through woods and swamps, and up 
 hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild 
 pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neigh 
 bour even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost 
 man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, 
 or building stone fences; the women of the village, 
 too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to 
 do such little odd jobs as their less obliging hus 
 bands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was 
 ready to attend to any body s business but his own ; 
 but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm 
 in order, he found it impossible. 
 
 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on 
 his farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of 
 ground in the whole country ; every thing about it 
 went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 49 
 
 His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his 
 cow would either go astray, or get among the cab 
 bages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his 
 fields than any where else ; the rain always made a 
 point of setting in just as he had some out-door 
 work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate 
 had dwindled away under his management, acre by 
 acre, until there was little more left than a mere 
 patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
 worst conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. 
 
 His children too, were as ragged and wild as if 
 they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin 
 begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit 
 the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He 
 was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mo 
 ther s heels, equipped in a pair of his father s cast 
 off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up 
 with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad 
 weather. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
 happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 
 who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, 
 which ever can be got with least thought or trouble, 
 and would rather starve on a penny than work for 
 a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled 
 life away in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept 
 continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, 
 his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 KIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
 was incessantly going, and every thing he said or 
 did was sure to produce a torrent of household 
 eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to 
 all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, 
 had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, 
 shook his head, cast up his eyes but said nothing. 
 This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from 
 his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, 
 and take to the outside of the house the only 
 side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked hus 
 band. 
 
 Rip s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
 who was as much henpecked as his master ; for 
 Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in 
 idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil 
 eye, as the cause of his master s going so often 
 astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting 
 an honourable dog, he was as courageous an animal 
 as ever scoured the woods but what courage can 
 withstand the ever-during and all besetting terrors 
 of a woman s tongue ? The moment Wolf entered 
 the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the 
 ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
 with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at 
 Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a 
 broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with 
 yelping precipitation.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 51 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
 Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart tem 
 per never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is 
 the only edge tool that grows keener with constant 
 use. For a long while he used to console himself, 
 when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of 
 perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other 
 idle personages of the village ; which held its ses 
 sions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a 
 rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third, 
 Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy 
 summer s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, 
 or tell endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
 it would have been worth any statesman s money to 
 have heard the profound discussions that sometimes 
 took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell 
 into their hands from some passing traveller. How 
 solemnly they would listen to the contents, as 
 drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school 
 master, a dapper learned little man, who was not to 
 be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dic 
 tionary ; and how sagely they w r ould deliberate upon 
 public events some months after they had taken 
 place. 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely con 
 trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the vil 
 lage, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which 
 he took his seat from morning till night, just moving
 
 52 fclP VAN WINKLfc. 
 
 sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade 
 of a large tree ; so that the neighbours could tell the 
 hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun 
 dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak> but 
 smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, bow*- 
 ever, (for every great man has his adherents,) per 
 fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his 
 opinions. When any thing that was read or related 
 displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe 
 Tehemently, and send forth short, frequent, and 
 angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale 
 the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light 
 and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe 
 from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapour curl 
 about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token 
 of perfect approbation. 
 
 From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip was 
 at length routed by his termagant wife, who would 
 suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the as 
 semblage and call the members all to naught ; nor 
 was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder him 
 self, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible 
 virago, who charged him outright with encouraging 
 her husband in habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; 
 and his only alternative, to escape from the labour 
 of the farm and the clamour of his wife, was to take 
 gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods. Here
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 53 
 
 he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a 
 tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, 
 with whom he sympathised as a fellow r -sufferer in 
 persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy 
 mistress leads thee a dog s life of it; but never 
 mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shall never want a 
 friend to stand by thee !" Wolf would wag his tail, 
 look wistfully in his master s face, and if dogs can 
 feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the senti 
 ment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
 day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the 
 highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was 
 after his favourite sport of squirrel shooting, and 
 the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with 
 the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he 
 threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green 
 knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned 
 the brow of a precipice. From an opening be 
 tween the trees he could overlook all the lower 
 country for many a mile of rich woodland. He 
 saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 
 him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with 
 the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a 
 lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy 
 bospm, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a deep 
 mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bot- 
 E 3
 
 54 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 torn filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, 
 and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the 
 setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on 
 this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the 
 mountains began to throw their long blue shadows 
 over the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long 
 before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
 heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the 
 terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
 from a distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip 
 Van Winkle !" He looked around, but could see 
 nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across 
 the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 
 deceived him and turned again to descend, when he 
 heard the same cry ring through the still evening 
 air ; " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle !" at 
 the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving 
 a low growl, skulked to his master s side, looking 
 fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague 
 apprehension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously 
 in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure 
 slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 
 weight of something he carried on his back. He 
 was surprised to see any human being in this lonely 
 and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be 
 some one of the neighbourhood in need of his as 
 sistance, he hastened down to yield it.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 55 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more surprised 
 at the singularity of the stranger s appearance. He 
 was a short square built old fellow, with thick bushy 
 hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the 
 antique Dutch fashion a cloth jerkin strapped 
 round the waist several pair of breeches, the 
 outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows 
 of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the 
 knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that 
 seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to 
 approach and assist him with the load. Though 
 rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 
 Hip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually 
 relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow 
 gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. 
 As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard 
 long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed 
 to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between 
 lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con 
 ducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing 
 it to be the muttering of one of those transient 
 thunder showers which often take place in moun 
 tain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the 
 ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphi 
 theatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, 
 over the brinks of which impending trees shot their 
 branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the 
 azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During 
 E4
 
 56 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 the whole time Rip and his companion had laboured 
 on in silence ; for though the former marvelled 
 greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg 
 of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was 
 something strange and incomprehensible about the 
 unknown, that inspired awe and checked fami 
 liarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
 wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in 
 the centre was a company of odd looking per 
 sonages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed 
 in a quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore short 
 doublets, others jerkins, "with long knives in their 
 belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of 
 similar style with that of the guide s. Their visages, 
 too, were peculiar : one had a large head, broad 
 face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of another 
 seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was sur 
 mounted by a white sugarloaf hat, set off with a 
 little red cock s-tail. They all had beards, of va 
 rious shapes and colours. There was one who 
 seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old 
 gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; he 
 wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high 
 crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high 
 heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole 
 group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish 
 painting, in the parlour of Dominie Van Schaick,
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 57 
 
 the village parson, and which had been brought 
 over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, that 
 though these folks were evidently amusing them 
 selves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the 
 most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most 
 melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
 Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene, but 
 the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were 
 rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling 
 peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, 
 they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared 
 at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such 
 strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his 
 heart turned within him, and his knees smote toge 
 ther. His companion now emptied the contents 
 of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him 
 to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear 
 and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in profound 
 silence, and then returned to their game. 
 
 By degrees, Rip s awe and apprehension sub 
 sided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed 
 upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found 
 had much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He 
 was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted 
 to repeat the draught. One taste provoked ano 
 ther, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so
 
 58 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 often, that at length his senses were overpowered, 
 his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually de 
 clined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
 from whence he had first seen the old man of the 
 glen. He rubbed his eyes it was a bright sunny 
 morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
 among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling 
 aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
 " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all 
 night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
 asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor 
 the mountain ravine the wild retreat among the 
 rocks -the wo-begone party at nine-pins the 
 flagon " Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" 
 thought Rip "what excuse shall I make to Dame 
 Van Winkle?" i\p 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
 clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire 
 lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, 
 the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He 
 now suspected that the grave roysters of the moun 
 tain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed 
 him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, 
 too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed 
 away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
 after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; 
 the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no 
 dog was to be seen.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 59 
 
 He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
 evening s gambol, and if he met with any of the 
 party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to 
 walk he found himself stiff in the joints, and want 
 ing in his usual activity. " These mountain beds 
 do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this 
 frolick should lay me up with a fit of the rheuma 
 tism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
 Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into 
 the glen: he found the gully up which he and his 
 companion had ascended the preceding evening; 
 but to his astonishment a mountain stream was 
 now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, 
 and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He 
 however made shift to scramble up its sides, work 
 ing his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sas 
 safras, and witch hazel, and sometimes tripped up 
 or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted 
 their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread 
 a kind of net-work in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had 
 opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but 
 no traces of such opening remained. The rocks 
 presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the 
 torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, 
 and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the 
 shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, 
 poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called
 
 60 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 and whistled after his dog; he was only answered 
 by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high 
 in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny preci 
 pice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to 
 look down and scoff at the poor man s perplexities. 
 What was to be done ? the morning was passing 
 away, and Rip felt famished for want of his break 
 fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he 
 dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to 
 starve among the mountains. He shook his head, 
 shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full 
 of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 
 
 As he approached the village he met a number 
 of people, but none whom he knew, which some 
 what surprised him, for he had thought himself ac 
 quainted with every one in the country round. 
 Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from 
 that to which he was accustomed. They all stared 
 at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
 they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
 chins. . The constant recurrence of this gesture in 
 duced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when to 
 his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a 
 foot long ! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
 troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
 after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The 
 dogs too, not one of which he recognized for an old
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 6l 
 
 acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The 
 very village was altered ; it was larger and more 
 populous. There were rows of houses which he 
 had never seen before, and those which had been 
 his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 
 were over the doors strange faces at the windows 
 every thing was strange. His mind now misgave 
 him; he began to doubt whether both he and the 
 world around him w 7 ere not bewitched. Surely this 
 was his native village, which he had left but the day 
 before. There stood the Katskill mountains there 
 ran the silver Hudson at a distance^ there was every 
 hill and dale precisely as it had always been Rip 
 was sorely perplexed " That flagon last night," 
 thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly !" 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way 
 to his own house, which he approached with silent 
 awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice 
 of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone 
 to decay the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, 
 and the doors off the hinges. A half starved dog 
 that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip 
 called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
 teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut in 
 deed " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has for 
 gotten me !" 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
 Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order.
 
 C2 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
 This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears 
 he called loudly for his wife and children the 
 lonely chambers rung for a moment with his voice, 
 and then all again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old 
 resort, the village inn but it too was gone. A 
 large ricketty wooden building stood in its place, 
 with great gaping windows, some of them broken 
 and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over 
 the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by 
 Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree 
 that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of 
 yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 
 something on the top that looked like a red night 
 cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which 
 was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes all 
 this was strange and incomprehensible. He re 
 cognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of 
 King George, under which he had smoked so many 
 a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly me 
 tamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one 
 of blue and buff", a sword was held in the hand 
 instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with 
 a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large 
 characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
 door, but none that Rip recollected. The very
 
 KIP VAN WINKLE. 63 
 
 character of the people seemed changed. There 
 was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
 instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tran 
 quillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas 
 Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair 
 long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead 
 of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the school 
 master, doling forth the contents of an ancient 
 newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-look 
 ing fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was 
 haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens 
 elections members of congress liberty Bunk 
 er s hill heroes of seventy-six and other words, 
 that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the be 
 wildered Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled 
 beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, 
 and the army of women and children that had ga 
 thered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of 
 the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, 
 eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 
 The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him 
 partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted r" 
 Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
 busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising 
 on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was 
 Federal or Democrat ?" Rip was equally at a loss 
 to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-
 
 64 HIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, 
 made his way through the crowd, putting them to 
 the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and 
 planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
 akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen 
 eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his 
 very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " what 
 brought him to the election with a gun on his shoul 
 der, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant 
 to breed a riot in the village ?" " Alas ! gentle 
 men," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a 
 poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
 subject of the King, God bless him !" 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the by-standers 
 " A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee! hustle him! 
 away with him!" It was with great difficulty that 
 the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
 order ; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
 brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, 
 what he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? 
 The poor man humbly assured him that he meant 
 no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
 of his neighbours, who used to keep about the 
 tavern. 
 
 " Well who are they? name them." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
 " Where s Nicholas Vedder ?" 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 65 
 
 old man replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas 
 Vedder? why he is dead and gone these eighteen 
 years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the 
 church-yard that used to tell all about him, but 
 that s rotted and gone too." 
 
 " Where s Brom Dutcher ?" 
 
 " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning 
 of the war ; some say he was killed at the storming 
 of Stoney-Point others say he was drowned in a 
 squall at the foot of Antony s Nose. I don t know 
 he never came back again." 
 
 " \\ here s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ?" 
 
 " He went off to the wars too, was a great mili 
 tia general, and is now in Congress." 
 
 Rip s heart died away at hearing of these sad 
 changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
 thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled 
 him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of 
 time, and of matters which he could not under 
 stand: war congress Stoney-Point; he had no 
 courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out 
 in despair, " does nobody here know Rip Van 
 Winkle ?" 
 
 " Oh, Rip Van Winkle ?" exclaimed two or 
 three, " Oh, to be sure ! that s Rip Van Winkle 
 yonder, leaning against the tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
 himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow 
 was now completely confounded. He doubted 
 his own identity, and whether he was himself or 
 another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, 
 the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, 
 and what was his name ? 
 
 " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit s end ; 
 " I m not myself I m somebody else that s me 
 yonder no that s somebody else, got into my 
 shoes I was myself last night, but I fell asleep 
 on the mountain, and they ve changed my gun, and 
 every thing s changed, and I m changed, and I 
 can t tell what s my name, or who I am !" 
 
 The bystanders began now to look at each other, 
 nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
 their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
 securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from 
 doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
 self-important man in the cocked hat retired with 
 some precipitation. At this critical moment a 
 fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to 
 get a peep at the grey bearded man. She had a 
 chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his 
 looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, 
 " hush, you little fool, the old man wont hurt you." 
 The name of the child, the air of the mother, the 
 tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollec 
 tions in his mind. " What is your name, my good 
 woman r" asked he.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 67 
 
 " Judith Gardenier." 
 
 " And your father s name ?" 
 
 " Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; 
 it s twenty years since he went away from home 
 with his gun, and never has been heard of since 
 his dog came home without him ; but whether he 
 shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, 
 nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he 
 put it with a faltering voice : 
 
 " Where s your mother ?" 
 
 Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; 
 she broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a 
 New-England pedlar. 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this 
 intelligence. The honest man could contain him 
 self no longer. He caught his daughter and her 
 child in his arms. " I am your father !" cried he 
 " Young Rip Van W inkle once old Rip Van 
 Winkle now ! Does nobody know poor Rip Van 
 Winkle r" 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering 
 out from among the crowd, put her hand to her 
 brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, 
 exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle 
 it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbour 
 Why, where have you been these twenty long 
 
 years 
 
 F 2
 
 68 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 Rip s story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
 years had been to him but as one night. The 
 neighbours stared when they heard it ; some were 
 seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
 in their cheeks : and the self-important man in the 
 cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had 
 returned to the field, screwed down the corners of 
 his mouth, and shook his head upon which there 
 was a general shaking of the head throughout the 
 assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the opinion 
 of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly 
 advancing up the road. He was a descendant of 
 the historian of that name, who wrote one of the 
 earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the 
 most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well 
 versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of 
 the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once, 
 and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
 manner. He assured the company that it was a 
 fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, 
 that the Kaatskill mountains had always been 
 haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed 
 that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first disco 
 verer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil 
 there every twenty years, with his crew of the 
 Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit 
 the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 69 
 
 eye upon the river, and the great city called by his 
 name. That his father had once seen them in their 
 old Dutch dresses playing at nine pins in a hollow 
 of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, 
 one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, 
 like distant peals of thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company broke 
 up, and returned to the more important concerns 
 of the election. Rip s daughter took him home to 
 live with her : she had a snug, well-furnished house, 
 and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip 
 recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb 
 upon his back. As to Rip s son and heir, who 
 was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the 
 tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but 
 evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any 
 thing else but his business. 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he 
 soon found many of his former cronies, though 
 all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; 
 and preferred making friends among the rising 
 generation, with whom he soon grew into great 
 favour. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived 
 at that happy age when a man can do nothing with 
 impunity, he took his place once more on the bench 
 at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
 patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old
 
 70 KIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 times " before the war." It was some time before he 
 could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be 
 made to comprehend the strange events that had taken 
 place during his torpor. How that there had been 
 a revolutionary war that the country had thrown 
 off the yoke of old England and that, instead of 
 being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
 he was now a free citizen of the United States. 
 Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of 
 states and empires made but little impression on 
 him ; but there was one species of despotism under 
 which he had long groaned, and that was petticoat 
 government. Happily, that was at an end ; he had 
 got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and 
 could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
 dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When 
 ever her name was mentioned, however, he shook 
 his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his 
 eyes ; which might pass either for an expression of 
 resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 
 
 He used to tell his story to every stranger that 
 arrived at Mr. Doolittle s hotel. He was observed, 
 at first, to vary on some points every time he told 
 it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so 
 recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely 
 to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, 
 or child in the neighbourhood, but knew it by heart. 
 Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it,
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 71 
 
 and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and 
 that this was one point on which he always re 
 mained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, how 
 ever, almost universally gave it full credit. Even 
 to this day they never hear a thunder storm of a 
 summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
 Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game 
 of nine pins ; and it is a common wish of all hen 
 pecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when life 
 hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a 
 quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle s flagon. 
 
 F 4
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been sug 
 gested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German supersti 
 tion about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the 
 Kypphaiiser mountain : the subjoined note, however, 
 which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an 
 absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity : 
 
 " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible 
 to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I 
 know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have 
 been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. 
 Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
 the villages along the Hudson ; all of which were too well 
 authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked 
 with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
 was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational 
 and consistent on every other point, that I think no con 
 scientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; 
 nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before 
 a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice s 
 own hand writing. The story, therefore, is beyond the 
 possibility of doubt. 
 
 D. K."
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 ON 
 
 AMERICA.
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 " Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself, 
 like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; rnethinks 1 
 see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled 
 eyes at the full mid-day beam." 
 
 MILTON ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PUESS. 
 
 IT is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the 
 literary animosity daily growing up between Eng 
 land and America. Great curiosity has been 
 awakened of late with respect to the United States, 
 and the London press has teemed with volumes of 
 travels through the Republic ; but they seem in 
 tended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and 
 so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding 
 the constant intercourse between the nations, there 
 is no people concerning whom the great mass of 
 the British public have less pure information, or 
 entertain more numerous prejudices.
 
 76 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 English travellers are the best and the worst in 
 the world. Where no motives of pride or interest 
 intervene, none can equal them for profound and 
 philosophical views of society, or faithful and gra 
 phical descriptions of external objects; but when 
 either the interest or reputation of their own coun 
 try comes in collision with that of another, they go 
 to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual pro 
 bity and candour, in the indulgence of spleen, and 
 an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 
 
 Hence, their travels are more honest and accu 
 rate, the more remote the country described. I 
 would place implicit confidence in an Englishman s 
 description of the regions beyond the cataracts of 
 the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; 
 of the interior of India; or of any other tract which 
 other travellers might be apt to picture out with the 
 illusions of their fancies ; but I would cautiously 
 receive his account of his immediate neighbours, 
 and of those nations with which he is in habits of 
 most frequent intercourse. However I might be 
 disposed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his 
 prejudices. 
 
 It has also been the peculiar lot of our country 
 to be visited by the worst kind of English travellers. 
 While men of philosophical spirit and cultivated 
 minds have been envoys from England to ransack 
 the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to studv the
 
 ON AMERICA. 77 
 
 manners and customs of barbarous nations, with 
 which she can have no permanent intercourse of 
 profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken- 
 down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wan 
 dering mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham 
 agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From 
 such sources she is content to receive her informa 
 tion respecting a country in a singular state of moral 
 and physical development : a country in which one 
 of the greatest political experiments in the history 
 of the world is now performing, and which presents 
 the most profound and momentous studies to the 
 statesman and the philosopher. 
 
 That such men should give prejudiced accounts 
 of America is not a matter of surprise. The 
 themes it offers for contemplation are too vast and 
 elevated for their capacities. The national charac 
 ter is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its 
 frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are 
 sound and wholesome ; it has already given proofs 
 of powerful and generous qualities ; and the whole 
 promises to settle down into something substan 
 tially excellent. But the causes which are operat 
 ing to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indi 
 cations of admirable properties, are all lost upon 
 these purblind observers, who are only affected by 
 the little asperities incident to its present situation. 
 They are capable of judging only of the surface of
 
 78 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 things ; of those matters which come in contact 
 with their private interests and personal gratifica 
 tions. They miss some of the snug conveniences 
 and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly- 
 finished, and over-populous state of society ; where 
 the ranks of useful labour are crowded, and many 
 earn a painful and servile subsistence by studying 
 the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. 
 These minor comforts, however, are all-important 
 in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do 
 not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are 
 more than counterbalanced among us by great and 
 generally diffused blessings. 
 
 They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in 
 some unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. 
 They may have pictured America to themselves an 
 El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded, and 
 the natives were lacking in sagacity; and where 
 they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, 
 in some unforeseen, but easy manner. The same 
 weakness of mind that indulges absurd expecta 
 tions, produces petulance in disappointment. Such 
 persons become embittered against the country on 
 finding that there, as every where else, a man must 
 sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by in 
 dustry and talent ; and must contend with the com 
 mon difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an 
 intelligent and enterprising people.
 
 ON AMERICA. 79 
 
 Perhaps, through mistake or ill-directed hospi 
 tality, or the prompt disposition to cheer and coun 
 tenance the stranger, prevalent among my country 
 men, they may have been treated with unwonted 
 respect in America : and having been accustomed 
 all their lives to consider themselves below the sur 
 face of good society, and brought up in a servile 
 feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the 
 common boon of civility; they attribute to the 
 lowliness of others their own elevation ; and under 
 rate a society where there are no artificial distinc 
 tions, and where, by any chance, such individuals 
 as themselves can rise to consequence. 
 
 One would suppose, however, that information 
 coming from such sources, on a subject where the 
 truth is so desirable, would be received with caution 
 by the censors of the press. That the motives of 
 these men, their veracity, their opportunities of in 
 quiry and observation, and their capacities for judg 
 ing correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized be 
 fore their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping 
 extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, 
 however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking in 
 stance of human inconsistency. Nothing can sur 
 pass the vigilance with which English critics will 
 examine the credibility of the traveller who pub 
 lishes an account of some distant, and comparatively 
 unimportant, country. How warily will they com-
 
 80 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 pare the measurements of a pyramid, or the descrip 
 tions of a ruin, and how sternly will they censure 
 any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely 
 curious knowledge : while they will receive, with 
 eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepre 
 sentations of coarse and obscure writers, concerning 
 a country with which their own is placed in the 
 most important and delicate relations. Nay, they 
 will even make these apocryphal volumes text 
 books, on which to enlarge wdth a zeal and an abi 
 lity worthy of a more generous cause. 
 
 I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and 
 hackneyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, 
 but for the undue interest apparently taken in it by 
 my countrymen, and certain injurious effects which 
 I apprehended it might produce upon the national 
 feeling. We attach too much consequence to these 
 attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. 
 The tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be 
 woven round us are like cobwebs woven round the 
 limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually 
 outgrow r s them. One falsehood after another falls 
 off of itself. We have but to live on, and every 
 day we live a whole volume of refutation. All the 
 writers of England united, if we could for a moment 
 suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
 a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-grow 
 ing importance and matchless prosperity. They
 
 ON AMERICA. 81 
 
 could not conceal that these are owing, not merely 
 to physical and local, but also to moral causes 
 to the political liberty, the general diffusion of know 
 ledge, the prevalence of sound moral and religious 
 principles, which give force and sustained energy to 
 the character of a people ; and in fact, have been 
 the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of their 
 own national power and glory. 
 
 But why are we so exquisitely alive to the asper 
 sions of England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to 
 be so affected by the contumely she has endea 
 voured to cast upon us ? It is not in the opinion 
 of England alone that honour lives, and reputation 
 has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of 
 a nation s fame ; with its thousand eyes it witnesses 
 a nation s deeds, and from their collective testimony 
 is national glory or national disgrace established. 
 
 For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of 
 but little importance whether England does us jus 
 tice or not ; it is, perhaps, of far more importance 
 to herself. She is instilling anger and resentment 
 into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with 
 its growth and strengthen with its strength. If in 
 America, as some of her writers are labouring to 
 convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious 
 rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very 
 writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated 
 hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading in- 
 
 VOL. i. o
 
 82 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 fluence of literature at the present day, and how 
 much the opinions and passions of mankind are 
 under its control. The mere contests of the sword 
 are temporary : their wounds are but in the flesh, 
 and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and 
 forget them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to 
 the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; 
 they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it 
 morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It 
 is but seldom that any one overt act produces hos 
 tilities between two nations ; there exists, most 
 commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will ; a pre 
 disposition to take offence. Trace these to their 
 cause, and how often will they be found to originate 
 in the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers, 
 who, secure in their closets, and for ignominious 
 bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is to 
 inflame the generous and the brave. 
 
 I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; 
 for it applies most emphatically to our particular 
 case. Over no nation does the press hold a more 
 absolute control than over the people of America ; 
 for the universal education of the poorest classes 
 makes every individual a reader. There is nothing 
 published in England on the subject of our country 
 that does not circulate through every part of it. 
 There is not a calumny dropt from an English pen, 
 nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English
 
 ON AMERICA. 83 
 
 statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and 
 add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, 
 then, as England does, the fountain head from 
 whence the literature of the language flows, how 
 completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her 
 duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magna 
 nimous feeling a stream where the two nations 
 might meet together, and drink in peace and kind 
 ness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to 
 waters of bitterness, the time may come when she 
 may repent her folly. The present friendship of 
 America may be of but little moment to her ; but 
 the future destinies of that country do not admit of 
 a doubt ; over those of England there lour some 
 shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of 
 gloom arrive ; should those reverses overtake her, 
 from which the proudest empires have not been 
 exempt ; she may look back with regret at her in 
 fatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she 
 might have grappled to her bosom, and thus de 
 stroying her only chance for real friendship beyond 
 the boundaries of her own dominions. 
 
 There is a general impression in England, that 
 the people of the United States are inimical to the 
 parent country. It is one of the errors which have 
 been diligently propagated by designing writers. 
 There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, 
 and a general soreness at the illiberality of the Eng-
 
 84 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 lish press ; but, collectively speaking, the prepos 
 sessions of the people are strongly in favour of 
 England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in 
 many parts of the union, to an absurd degree of 
 bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a 
 passport to the confidence and hospitality of every 
 family, and too often gave a transient currency to 
 the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the 
 country there was something of enthusiasm con 
 nected with the idea of England. We looked to it 
 with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and venera 
 tion, as the land of our forefathers the august re 
 pository of the monuments and antiquities of our 
 race the birth-place and mausoleum of the sages 
 and heroes of our paternal history. After our own 
 country, there was none in whose glory we more 
 delighted none whose good opinion we were more 
 anxious to possess^-none toward which our hearts 
 yearned with such throbbings of warm consangui 
 nity. Even during the late war, whenever there 
 was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring 
 forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of 
 our country to show that, in the midst of hostilities, 
 they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 
 Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band 
 of kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to 
 be broken for ever ? Perhaps it is for the best 
 it may dispel an illusion which might have kept us
 
 ON AMERICA. 85 
 
 in mental vassalage, interfered occasionally with our 
 true interests, and prevented the growth of proper 
 national pride. But it is hard to give up the kin 
 dred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest 
 closer to the heart than pride that will still make 
 us cast back a look of regret, as we wander farther 
 and farther from the paternal roof, and lament the 
 waywardness of the parent that would repel the 
 affections of the child. 
 
 Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the 
 conduct of England may be in this system of as 
 persion, recrimination on our part would be equally 
 ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited 
 vindication of our country, or the keenest casti- 
 gation of her slanderers but I allude to a dispo 
 sition to retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and 
 inspire prejudice, which seems to be spreading 
 widely among our writers. Let us guard particu 
 larly against such a temper, for it would double the 
 evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so 
 easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sar 
 casm ; but it is a paltry and unprofitable contest. 
 It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into 
 petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If 
 England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of 
 trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to 
 deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the 
 fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her ex- 
 G 3
 
 86 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 ample. She may deem it her interest to diffuse 
 error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of 
 checking emigration; we have no purpose of the 
 kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of na 
 tional jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in all our rival- 
 ships with England, we are the rising and the gain 
 ing party. There can be no end to answer, there 
 fore, but the gratitication of resentment a mere 
 spirit of retaliation, and even that is impotent. Our 
 retorts are never republished in England ; they fall 
 short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a que 
 rulous and peevish temper among our writers; they 
 sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow 
 thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What; is 
 still worse, they circulate through our own cquntry, 
 and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national 
 prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to 
 be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely b.y 
 public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to 
 preserve the purity of the public mind. Know 
 ledge is power, and truth is knowledge; whoever, 
 therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully 
 saps the foundation of his country s strength. 
 
 The members of a republic, above all other men, 
 should be candid and dispassionate. They are, 
 individually, portions of the sovereign mind and 
 sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to all 
 questions of national concern with calm and uu-
 
 ON AMERICA. 87 
 
 biassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of 
 our relations with England, we must have more 
 frequent questions of a difficult and delicate charac 
 ter with her than with any other nation; questions 
 that affect the most acute and excitable feelings; 
 and as, in the adjusting of these, our national mea 
 sures must ultimately be determined by popular 
 sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to 
 purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. 
 
 Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangers 
 from every portion of the earth, we should receive 
 all with impartiality. It should be our pride to ex 
 hibit an example of one nation at least, destitute of 
 national antipathies, and exercising, not merely the 
 overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and 
 noble courtesies which spring from liberality of 
 opinion. 
 
 What have we to do with national prejudices? 
 They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, 
 contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nations 
 knew but little of each other, and looked beyond 
 their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. 
 We, on the contrary, have sprung into national ex 
 istence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when 
 the different parts of the habitable world, and the 
 various branches of the human family, have been 
 indefatigably studied and made known to each other; 
 and we forego the aclv antages of our birth, if we do 
 c; 4
 
 88 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 not shake off the national prejudices, as we would 
 the local superstitions of the old world. 
 
 But above all, let us not be influenced by any 
 angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the 
 perception of what is really excellent and amiable 
 in the English character. We are a young people, 
 necessarily an imitative one, and must take our ex 
 amples and models, in a great degree, from the 
 existing nations of Europe. There is no country 
 more worthy of our study than England. The spirit 
 of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
 manners of her people their intellectual activity 
 their freedom of opinion their habits of thinking 
 on those subjects which concern the dearest interests 
 and most sacred charities of private life, are all con 
 genial to the American character; and, in fact, are 
 all intrinsically excellent; for it is in the moral feel 
 ing of the people that the deep foundations of 
 British prosperity are laid ; and however the super 
 structure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, 
 there must be something solid in the basis, admirable 
 in the materials, and stable in the structure of an 
 edifice, that so long has towered unshaken amidst 
 the tempests of the world. 
 
 Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, dis 
 carding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to 
 retaliate the illiberality of British authors, to speak 
 of the English nation without prejudice, and with
 
 ON AMERICA. 89 
 
 determined candour. While they rebuke the indis- 
 criminating bigotry with which some of our country 
 men admire and imitate every thing English, merely 
 because it is English, let them frankly point out 
 what is really worthy of approbation. We may 
 thus place England before us as a perpetual volume 
 of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions 
 from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the 
 errors and absurdities which may have crept into 
 the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of 
 practical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to 
 embellish our national character.
 
 RURAL LIFE 
 
 ENGLAND.
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND: 
 
 Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man. 
 Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. 
 Domestic life in rural pleasure pass d ! 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 THE stranger who would form a correct opinion of 
 the English character, must not confine his observa 
 tions to the metropolis. He must go forth into 
 the country ; he must sojourn in villages and ham 
 lets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm houses, cot 
 tages ; he must wander through parks and gardens; 
 along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about 
 country churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and 
 other rural festivals ; and cope with the people in 
 all their conditions, and all their habits and hu 
 mours. 
 
 In some countries, the large cities absorb the 
 wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the only 
 fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and 
 the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish 
 peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metro 
 polis is a mere gathering place, or general rendez-
 
 94 RURAL LIFE 
 
 vous, of the polite classes, where they devote a 
 small portion of the year to a hurry of gaiety and 
 dissipation, and having indulged this kind of car 
 nival, return again to the apparently more congenial 
 habits of rural life. The various orders of society 
 are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the 
 kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhoods 
 afford specimens of the different ranks. 
 
 The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the 
 rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to 
 the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the 
 pleasures and employments of the country. This 
 passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhar 
 bitants of cities, born and brought up among brick 
 walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into 
 rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. 
 The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of 
 the metropolis, where he often displays as much 
 pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower garden, 
 and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the 
 conduct of his business, and the success of a com 
 mercial enterprize. Even those less fortunate indi 
 viduals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the 
 midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something 
 that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. 
 In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the 
 drawing room window resembles frequently a bank 
 of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetation has its
 
 IN ENGLAND. 95 
 
 grass plot and flower bed ; and every square its 
 mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and 
 gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
 
 Those who see the Englishman only in town, are 
 apt to form an unfavourable opinion of his social 
 character. He is either absorbed in business, or 
 distracted by the thousand engagements that dissi 
 pate time, thought and feeling, in this huge metro 
 polis. He has, therefore, too commonly, a look of 
 hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to 
 be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at 
 the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind 
 is wandering to another ; and while paying a 
 friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall econo 
 mize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the 
 morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is 
 calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. 
 In their casual and transient meetings, they can but 
 deal briefly in common-places. They present but 
 the cold superficies of character its rich and genial 
 qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. 
 
 It is in the country that the Englishman gives 
 scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose 
 gladly from the cold formalities and negative civili 
 ties of town ; throws off his habits of shy reserve, 
 and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He ma 
 nages to collect round him all the conveniences and 
 elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints.
 
 96 RURAL LIFE 
 
 His country seat abounds with every requisite, 
 either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, 
 or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, 
 dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at 
 hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests 
 or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality pro 
 vides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every 
 one to partake according to his inclination. 
 
 The taste of the English in the cultivation of 
 land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is 
 unrivalled. They have studied nature intently, and 
 discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms 
 and harmonious combinations. Those charms, 
 which in other countries she lavishes in wild soli 
 tudes, are here assembled round the haunts of do 
 mestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and 
 furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, 
 about their rural abodes. 
 
 Nothing can be more imposing than the magnifi 
 cence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that 
 extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and 
 there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles 
 of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and wood 
 land glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds 
 across them ; the hare, bounding away to the co 
 vert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the 
 wing. The brook, taught to wind in the most 
 natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake
 
 IN ENGLAND. 97 
 
 the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, 
 with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the 
 trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters : 
 while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown 
 green and dank with age, gives an air of classic 
 sanctity to the seclusion. 
 
 These are but a few of the features of park 
 scenery ; but what most delights me, is the creative 
 talent with which the English decorate the unosten 
 tatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habita 
 tion, the most unpromising and scanty portion of 
 land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, be 
 comes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating 
 eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pic 
 tures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile 
 spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet 
 the operations of art which produce the effect are 
 scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and 
 training of some trees ; the cautious pruning of 
 others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants 
 of tender and graceful foliage. ; the introduction of 
 a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to 
 a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water ; 
 all these are managed with a delicate tact, a per 
 vading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings 
 with which a painter finishes up a favourite picture. 
 
 The residence of people of fortune and refine 
 ment in the country has diffused a degree of taste 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98. RURAL LIFE 
 
 and elegance in rural economy, that descends to 
 the lowest class. The very labourer, with his 
 thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends 
 to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass 
 plot before the door, the litttle flower-bed bor 
 dered with snug box, the w r oodbine trained up 
 against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about 
 the lattice ; the pot of flowers in the window ; the 
 holly providently planted about the house, to cheat 
 winter of its dreariness, and throw in a semblance 
 of green summer to cheer the fire-side : all these 
 bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from 
 high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of 
 the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, de 
 lights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of 
 an English peasant. 
 
 The fondness for rural life among the higher 
 classes of the English has had a great and salutary 
 effect upon the national character. I do not know 
 a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. 
 Instead of the softness and effeminacy which cha 
 racterize the men of rank in most countries, they 
 exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robust 
 ness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I 
 am inclined to attribute to their living so much in 
 the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating 
 recreations of the country. These hardy exercises 
 produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits,
 
 IN ENGLAND. 99 
 
 and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which 
 even the follies and dissipations of the town can 
 not easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. 
 In the country, too, the different orders of society 
 seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed 
 to blend and operate favourably upon each other. 
 The distinctions between them do not appear to 
 be so marked and impassable, as in the cities. The 
 manner in which property has been distributed 
 into small estates and farms, has established a 
 regular gradation from the nobleman, through the 
 classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and 
 substantial farmers, down to the labouring pea 
 santry ; and while it has thus banded the extremes 
 of society together has infused into each interme 
 diate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must 
 be confessed, is not so universally the case at 
 present as it was formerly ; the larger estates hav 
 ing, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, 
 and in some parts of the country, almost annihi 
 lated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, 
 however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the 
 general system I have mentioned. 
 
 In rural occupation there is nothing mean and 
 debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of 
 natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the 
 workings of his own mind, operated upon by the 
 purest and most elevating of external influences. 
 H2
 
 100 RURAL LIFE 
 
 Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot 
 be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, 
 finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the 
 lower orders in rural life, as he does when he ca 
 sually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He 
 lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to 
 wave the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the 
 honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. In 
 deed the very amusements of the country bring 
 men more and more together ; and the sound of 
 hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. 
 I believe this is one great reason why the nobility 
 and gentry are more popular among the inferior 
 orders in England than they are in any other coun 
 try; and why the latter have endured so many 
 excessive pressures and extremities, without re 
 pining more generally at the unequal distribution 
 of fortune and privilege. 
 
 To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society 
 may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs 
 through British literature ; the frequent use of il 
 lustrations from rural life ; those incomparable de 
 scriptions of nature that abound in the British 
 poets that have continued down from " the 
 Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought 
 into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of 
 the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of 
 other countries appear as if they had paid nature
 
 IN ENGLAND. 101 
 
 an occasional visit, and become acquainted with 
 her general charms ; but the British poets have 
 lived and revelled with her, they have wooed her 
 in her most secret haunts, they have watched her 
 minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in 
 the breeze a leaf could not rustle to the ground 
 a diamond drop could not patter in the stream 
 a fragrance could not exhale from the humble 
 violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the 
 morning ; but it has been noticed by these impas 
 sioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into 
 some beautiful morality. 
 
 The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to 
 rural occupations has been wonderful on the face 
 of the country. A great part of the island is level, 
 and would be monotonous, were it not for the 
 charms of culture ; but it is studded and gemmed, 
 as it were, with castles and palaces, and em 
 broidered with parks and gardens. It does not 
 abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather 
 in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
 quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown 
 cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are conti 
 nually winding, and the view is shut in by groves 
 and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual suc 
 cession of small landscapes of captivating loveli 
 ness. 
 
 The great charm, however, of English scenery 
 n3
 
 102 RURAL LIFE 
 
 is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is 
 associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, 
 of sober well established principles, of hoary usage 
 and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the 
 growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. 
 The old church of remote architecture, with its 
 low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows 
 rich with tracery and painted glass, its scrupulous 
 preservation ; its stately monuments of warriors 
 and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the 
 present lords of the soil ; its tombstones, recording 
 successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose 
 progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at 
 the same altar. The parsonage, a quaint irregular 
 pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in 
 the tastes of various ages and occupants. The 
 stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, 
 across pleasant fields, and along shady hedgerows, 
 according to an immemorable right of way. The 
 neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, 
 its public green, sheltered by trees, under which 
 the forefathers of the present race have sported. 
 The antique family mansion, standing apart in some 
 little rural domain, but looking down with a pro 
 tecting air on the surrounding scene. All these 
 common features of English landscape, evince a 
 calm and settled security, an hereditary transmis 
 sion of home-bred virtues and local attachments,
 
 IN ENGLAND. 103 
 
 that speak deeply and toucliingly for the moral cha 
 racter of the nation. 
 
 It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when 
 the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet 
 fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, 
 with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness, throng 
 ing tranquilly along the green lanes to church; but 
 it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, 
 gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing 
 to exult in the humble comforts and embellish 
 ments which their own hands have spread around 
 them. 
 
 It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose 
 of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, 
 the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoy 
 ments ; and I cannot close these desultory remarks 
 better, than by quoting the words of a modern 
 English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable 
 felicity : 
 
 Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
 The city dome, the villa crown d with shade, 
 But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
 In town or hamlet, shelt ring middle life, 
 Down to the cottag d vale, and straw-roof d shed ; 
 This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
 Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling place : 
 Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
 (Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 
 Can centre in a little quiet nest 
 All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
 H 4
 
 104 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 That can, the world eluding, be itself 
 A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 
 But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
 That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
 Smiles, though tis looking only at the sky.* 
 
 * From a Poem on the Death of the Princess Charlotte, by the 
 Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M.
 
 THE 
 
 BROKEN HEART.
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 
 Of any true affection, but twas nipt 
 With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring s sweetest book, the rose. 
 
 MIDDLETOV. 
 
 IT is a common practice with those who have 
 outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have 
 been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissi 
 pated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat 
 the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of 
 novelists and poets. My observations on human 
 nature have induced me to think otherwise. They 
 have convinced me, that however the surface of the 
 character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of 
 the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the 
 arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking 
 in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when 
 once enkindled, become impetuous and are some 
 times desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a 
 true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full
 
 108 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? I be 
 lieve in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying 
 of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider 
 it a malady often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly 
 believe that it withers down many a lovely woman 
 into an early grave. 
 
 Man is the creature of interest and ambition. 
 His nature leads him forth into the struggle and 
 bustle of the world. Love is but the embellish 
 ment of his early life, or a song piped in the inter 
 vals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, 
 for space in the world s thought, and dominion 
 over his fellow men. But a woman s whole life is 
 a history of the affections. The heart is her world : 
 it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is 
 there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She 
 sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she em 
 barks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and 
 if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless for it is a 
 bankruptcy of the heart. 
 
 To a man the disappointment of love may occa 
 sion some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings 
 of tenderness it blasts some prospects of felicity ; 
 but he is an active being he can dissipate his 
 thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or 
 plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene 
 of disappointment be too full of painful associa 
 tions, he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 109 
 
 were the wings of the morning, can fly to the utter 
 most parts of the earth, and be at rest. 
 
 But woman s is comparatively a fixed, a se 
 cluded, and a meditative life. She is more the 
 companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and 
 if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where 
 shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be 
 wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her 
 heart is like some fortress that has been captured, 
 and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 
 
 How many bright eyes grow dim how many 
 soft cheeks grow pale how many lovely forms 
 fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the 
 cause that blighted their loveliness. As the dove 
 will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and con 
 ceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it is 
 the nature of woman, to hide from the world the 
 pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate 
 female is always shy and silent. Even when for 
 tunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when 
 otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bo 
 som, and there lets it cower and brood among the 
 ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the 
 heart has failed. The great charm of existence is 
 at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
 which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and 
 send the tide of life in healthful currents through 
 the veins. Her rest is broken the sweet refresh-
 
 110 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 ment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams 
 " dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled 
 frame sinks under the slightest external injury. 
 Look for her, after a little while, and you find 
 friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and 
 wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all 
 the radiance of health and beauty, should so 
 speedily be brought down to " darkness and the 
 worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, 
 some casual indisposition, that laid her low ; but 
 no one knows the mental malady that previously 
 sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey 
 to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty 
 of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foli 
 age, but with the worm preying at its heart. We 
 find it suddenly withering, when it should be most 
 fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches 
 to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted 
 and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of 
 the forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, 
 we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunder 
 bolt that could have smitten it with decay. 
 
 I have seen many instances of women running to 
 waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually 
 from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled 
 to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied, that I 
 could trace their death through the various declen-
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. Ill 
 
 sions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, me 
 lancholy, until I reached the first symptom of 
 disappointed love. But an instance of the kind 
 was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well 
 known in the country where they happened, and I 
 shall but give them in the manner in which they 
 were related. 
 
 Every one must recollect the tragical story of 
 
 young E , the Irish patriot, it w r as too touching 
 
 to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in 
 Ireland he w r as tried, condemned, and executed, on 
 a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im 
 pression on public sympathy. He was so young 
 so intelligent so generous so brave so every 
 thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His 
 conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 
 The noble indignation with which he repelled the 
 charge of treason against his country the eloquent 
 vindication of his name and his pathetic appeal 
 to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation 
 all these entered deeply into every generous bo 
 som, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy 
 that dictated his execution. 
 
 But there was one heart, whose anguish it would 
 be impossible to describe. In happier days and 
 fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beau 
 tiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late 
 celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the
 
 112 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 disinterested fervour of a woman s first and early 
 love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself 
 against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace 
 and danger darkened around his name, she loved 
 him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, 
 then, his fate could awaken the sympathy, even of 
 his foes, what must have been the agony of her 
 whose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let 
 those tell who have had the portals of the tomb 
 suddenly closed between them and the being they 
 most loved on earth who have sat at its threshold, 
 as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from 
 whence all that was most lovely and loving had 
 departed. 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! so fright 
 ful, so dishonoured ! There was nothing for me 
 mory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of 
 separation none of those tender, though melan 
 choly circumstances, that endear the parting scene 
 nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, 
 sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in 
 the parching hour of anguish. 
 
 To render her widowed situation more desolate, 
 she had incurred her father s displeasure by her 
 unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the 
 paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind 
 offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked 
 and driven in by horror, she would have experienced
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 113 
 
 no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people 
 of quick and generous sensibilities. The most 
 delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by 
 families of wealth and distinction. She was led 
 into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupa 
 tion and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean 
 her from the tragical story of her loves. But it 
 was all in vain. There are some strokes of ca 
 lamity that scathe and scorch the soul that pene 
 trate to the vital seat of happiness and blast it, 
 never again to put forth bud or blossom, She 
 never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, 
 but she was as much alone there as in the depths 
 of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, ap 
 parently unconscious of the world around her. She 
 carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all 
 the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not 
 the song of the charmer, charm he never so 
 wisely." 
 
 The person who told me her story had seen her 
 at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of 
 far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful 
 than to meet it in such a scene. To rind it wander 
 ing like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
 around is gay to see it dressed out in the trap 
 pings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, 
 as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into 
 a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with 
 an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down ou 
 the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for 
 some time with a vacant air, that shewed her insen 
 sibility to the garish scene, she began with the 
 capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little 
 plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on 
 this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it 
 breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that 
 she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and 
 melted every one into tears. 
 
 The story of one so true and tender, could not 
 but excite great interest in a country remarkable 
 for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a 
 brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and 
 thought that one so true to the dead, could not but 
 prove affectionate to the living. She declined his 
 attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably en 
 grossed by the memory of her former lover. He 
 however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not 
 her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted 
 by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of 
 her own destitute and dependent situation, for she 
 was existing on the kindness of friends. In a 
 word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, 
 though with the solemn assurance, that her heart 
 was unalterably another s. 
 
 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 115 
 
 change of scene might wear out the remembrance 
 of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary 
 wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but 
 nothing could cure the silent and devouring melan 
 choly that had entered into her very soul. She 
 wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and 
 at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken 
 heart. 
 
 It was on her that Moore, the distinguished 
 Irish poet, composed the following lines : 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers around her are sighing : 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 
 
 Every note which he lov d awaking 
 Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 
 
 He had lived for his love for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwined him 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 
 
 Oh ! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 
 They ll shine o er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
 From her own lov d island of sorrow ! 
 
 I 2
 
 THE 
 
 ART OF BOOK MAKING.
 
 >a
 
 THE 
 
 ART OF BOOK MAKING. 
 
 " If that severe doom of Synesius be true It it a greater offence to steal 
 dead men s labours, than their clothes, what shall become of most writers ?" 
 BURTON S ANAT. OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 1 HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity 
 of the press, and how it comes to pass that so 
 many heads, on whicli nature seems to have in 
 flicted the curse of barrenness, yet teem with vo 
 luminous productions. As a man travels on, how 
 ever, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder 
 daily diminish, and he is continually finding out 
 some very simple cause for some great matter of 
 marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrina 
 tions about this great metropolis, to blunder upon 
 a scene which unfolded to me some of the myste 
 ries of the book-making craft, and at once put an 
 end to my astonishment. 
 
 I was one summer s day loitering through the 
 i 4
 
 120 THE ART OF 
 
 great saloons of the British Museum, with that 
 listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about 
 a museum in warm weather; sometimes lolling over 
 the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the 
 hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and some 
 times trying, with nearly equal success, to compre 
 hend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. 
 Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my at 
 tention was attracted to a distant door, at the end 
 of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every 
 now and then it would open, and some strange 
 favoured being, generally clothed in black, would 
 steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without 
 noticing any of the surrounding objects. There 
 was an air of mystery about this that piqued my 
 languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the 
 passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown 
 regions that lay beyond. The door yielded to my 
 hand, with all that facility with which the portals of 
 enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight 
 errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, 
 surrounded with great cases of venerable books. 
 Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were 
 arranged a great number of quaint black looking 
 portraits of ancient authors. About the room were 
 placed long tables, with stands for reading and 
 writing, at which sat many pale, cadaverous per 
 sonages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rum-
 
 BOOK MAKING. 121 
 
 maging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking 
 copious notes of their contents. The most hushed 
 stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, 
 excepting that you might hear the racing of pens 
 over sheets of paper, or, occasionally, the deep sigh 
 of one of these sages> as he shifted his position to 
 turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless arising 
 from that hollowness and flatulency incident to 
 learned research. 
 
 Now and then one of these personages would 
 write something on a small slip of paper, and ring 
 a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take 
 the paper in profound silence, glide out of the 
 room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous 
 tomes, upon which the other would fall tooth and 
 nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a 
 doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, 
 deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. 
 The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale of a 
 philosopher, who was shut up in an enchanted 
 library in the bosom of a mountain, that opened 
 only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the 
 place obey his commands, and bring him books of 
 all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of 
 the year, when the magic portal once more swung 
 open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in for 
 bidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads 
 of the multitude, and to control the powers of 
 nature.
 
 THE ART OF 
 
 My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whis 
 pered to one of the familiars, as he was about to 
 leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the 
 strange scene before me. A few words were suffi 
 cient for the purpose. I found that these myste 
 rious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, 
 were principally authors, and were in the very act 
 of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the 
 reading room of the great British Library an im 
 mense collection of volumes of all ages and lan 
 guages, many of which are now forgotten, and most 
 of which are seldom read. To these sequestered 
 pools of obsolete literature, therefore, do many 
 modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of 
 classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," where 
 with to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 
 
 Being now in possession of the secret, I sat 
 down in a corner, and watched the process of this 
 book manufactory. I noticed one lean, bilious- 
 looking wight, who sought none but the most 
 worm-eaten volumes, printed in black letter. He 
 was evidently constructing some work of profound 
 erudition, that would be purchased by every man 
 who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a 
 conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon 
 his table ; but never read. I observed him, now 
 and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of 
 his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner,
 
 BOOK MAKING. 123 
 
 or whether he was endeavouring to keep off that, 
 exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pon 
 dering over dry works, I leave to harder students 
 than myself to determine. 
 
 There was one dapper little gentleman in bright 
 coloured clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expres 
 sion of countenance, who had all the appearance 
 of an author on good terms with his bookseller. 
 After considering him attentively, I recognised in 
 him a diligent getter up of miscellaneous works, 
 which bustled off well with the trade. I was 
 curious to see how he manufactured his wares. 
 He made more stir and show of business than any 
 of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering 
 over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out 
 of one, a morsel out of another, " line upon line, 
 precept upon precept, here a little and there a 
 little." The contents of his book seemed to be as 
 heterogeneous as those of the witches cauldron in 
 Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, 
 toe of frog and blind worm s sting, with his own gos 
 sip poured in like " baboon s blood," to make the 
 medley " slab and good." 
 
 After all, thought I, may not this pilfering dis 
 position be implanted in authors for wise purposes ; 
 may it not be the way in which Providence has taken 
 care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall 
 be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevit-
 
 124 THE ART OF 
 
 able decay of the works in which they were first 
 produced. We see that nature has wisely, though 
 whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds 
 from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds ; 
 so that animals, which, in themselves, are little 
 better than carrion, and apparently the lawless 
 plunderers of the orchard and the corn field, are, 
 in fact, Nature s carriers to disperse and perpetuate 
 her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and 
 fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete writers, are 
 caught up by these flights of predatory authors, and 
 cast forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a re 
 mote and distant tract of time. Many of their 
 works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, 
 and spring up under new forms. What was for 
 merly a ponderous history, revives in the shape of 
 a romance an old legend changes into a modern 
 play and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes 
 the body for a whole series of bouncing and spark 
 ling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our Ame 
 rican woodlands ; where we burn down a forest of 
 stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in 
 their place ; and we never see the prostrate trunk 
 of a tree, mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to 
 a whole tribe of fungi. 
 
 Let us not, then, lament over the decay and ob 
 livion into which ancient writers descend ; they do 
 but submit to the great law of nature, which de-
 
 BOOK MAKING. 125 
 
 clares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be 
 limited in their duration, but which decrees also, 
 that their elements shall never perish. Generation 
 after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, 
 passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to 
 posterity, and the species continue to flourish. 
 Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having 
 produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age 
 they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the 
 authors who preceded them and from whom they 
 had stolen. 
 
 Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, 
 I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend 
 folios. Whether it was owing to the soporific 
 emanations from these works ; or to the profound 
 quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from 
 much wandering ; or to an unlucky habit of napping 
 at improper times and places, with which I am grie 
 vously afflicted ; so it was, that I fell into a doze. 
 Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and 
 indeed the same scene remained before my mind s 
 eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I 
 dreamt that the chamber w r as still decorated with 
 the portraits of ancient authors, but that the number 
 was increased. The long tables had disappeared, 
 and in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, 
 thread-bare throng, such as may be seen plying 
 about that great repository of cast-off clothes, Mon-
 
 126 THE ART OF 
 
 mouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, 
 by one of those incongruities common to dreams, 
 methought it turned into a garment of foreign or 
 antique fashion, with which they proceeded to 
 equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no one 
 pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, 
 but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a 
 skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piece 
 meal, while some of his original rags would peep 
 out from among his borrowed finery. 
 
 There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom 
 I observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers 
 through an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip 
 on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, 
 and having purloined the gray beard of another, 
 endeavoured to look exceedingly wise ; but the 
 smirking common-place of his countenance set at 
 nought all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly 
 looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very 
 flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of seve 
 ral old court dresses of the reign of Queen Eliza 
 beth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently 
 from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nose 
 gay in his bosom, culled from " The Paradise of 
 dainty Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney s 
 hat on one side of his head, strutted oft" with an 
 exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was 
 but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out
 
 BOOK MAKING. 127 
 
 bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts 
 of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 
 front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and 
 I perceived that he had patched his small clothes 
 with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 
 
 There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is 
 true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, 
 which sparkled among their own ornaments, with 
 out eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to con 
 template the costumes of the old writers, merely 
 to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch 
 their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too 
 many were apt to array themselves from top to toe, 
 in the patch-work manner I have mentioned. I 
 should not omit to speak of one genius, in drab 
 breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had 
 a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose 
 rural wanderings had been confined to the classic 
 haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the 
 Regent s Park. He had decked himself in wreaths 
 and ribands from all the old pastoral poets, and 
 hanging his head on one side, went about with a 
 fantastical, lack-a-daisical air, " babbling about 
 green fields." But the personage that most struck 
 my attention, was a pragmatical old gentleman, in 
 clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, 
 but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and 
 puffing, elbow r ed his way through the throng, with
 
 128 THE ART OF 
 
 a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid 
 hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon 
 his head, and swept majestically away in a formid 
 able frizzled wig. 
 
 In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry 
 suddenly resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! 
 thieves !" I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the 
 walls became animated ! The old authors thrust 
 ovit, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, 
 looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the 
 motley throng, and then descended with fury in 
 their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The 
 scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued, 
 baffles all description. The unhappy culprits en 
 deavoured in vain to escape with the plunder. On 
 one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, 
 stripping a modern professor; on another, there 
 was sad devastation carried into the ranks of mo 
 dern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 side by side, raged round the field like Castor and 
 Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more won 
 ders than when a volunteer with the army in Flan 
 ders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, 
 mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself 
 in as many patches and colours as Harlequin, and 
 there was as fierce a contention of claimants about 
 him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was 
 grieved to see many men, to whom I had been ac-
 
 HOOK MAKING. 129 
 
 Customed to look up with awe and reverence, fain 
 to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their naked 
 ness. Just then my eye was caught by the prag 
 matical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled whig, 
 who was scrambling away in sore affright with half 
 a score of authors in full cry after him. They were 
 close upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off went 
 his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was 
 peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his 
 domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, 
 " chopp d bald shot," and made his exit with only 
 a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 
 
 There was something so ludicrous in the catas 
 trophe of this learned Theban, that I burst into an 
 immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole 
 illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an 
 end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. 
 The old authors shrunk back into their picture 
 frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the 
 walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my 
 corner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms 
 gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the 
 dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a 
 sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, 
 and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to elec 
 trify the fraternity. 
 
 The librarian now stepped up to me, and de 
 manded whether I had a card of admission. At 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE ART OF BOOK MAKING. 
 
 first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found 
 that the library was a kind of literary " preserve," 
 subject to game laws, and that no one must pre 
 sume to hunt there without special license and 
 permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being 
 an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi 
 tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of 
 authors let loose upon me.
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 K <2
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Though your body be confin d, 
 
 And soft love a prisoner bound, 
 Yet the beauty of your mind 
 
 Keither check nor chain hath found. 
 Look out nobly, then, and dare 
 Even the fetters that you wear. 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 ON a soft sunny morning in the genial month of 
 May, I made an excursion to Windsor castle. It 
 is a place full of storied and poetical associations. 
 The very external aspect of the proud old pile is 
 enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irre 
 gular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown, 
 round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal 
 banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly 
 air, upon the surrounding world. 
 
 On this morning the weather was of that volup 
 tuous vernal kind, which calls forth all the latent 
 romance of a man s temperament, filling his mind 
 with music, and disposing him to quote poetry and 
 dream of beauty. In wandering through the mag 
 nificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the 
 K 3
 
 134 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 castle, I passed with indifference by whole rows of 
 portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in 
 the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the 
 beauties that graced the gay court of Charles the 
 Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with 
 amorous half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy 
 eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, 
 which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected 
 rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green 
 courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, 
 and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was 
 engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, 
 but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings 
 about them in his stripling days, when enamoured 
 of the Lady Geraldine 
 
 " With eyes cast up unto the maiden s tower, 
 With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 
 
 In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I 
 visited the ancient Keep of the Castle, where James 
 the First of Scotland, the pride and theme of 
 Scottish poets and historians, was for many years 
 of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a 
 huge gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, 
 and is still in good preservation. It stands on a 
 mound, which elevates it above the other parts of 
 the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the
 
 A ROYAL POET. 135 
 
 interior. In the armoury, which is a gothic hall 
 furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, 
 I was shewn a coat of armour hanging against the 
 wall, which I was told had once belonged to James. 
 From hence I was conducted up a staircase to a 
 suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung 
 with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and 
 the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, 
 which has woven into the web of his story the ma 
 gical hues of poetry and fiction. 
 
 The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate 
 prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of 
 eleven he was sent from home by his father, Ro 
 bert III. and destined for the French court, to be 
 reared under the eye of the French monarch, 
 secure from the treachery and danger that sur 
 rounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his 
 mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the 
 hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
 by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed 
 between the two countries. 
 
 The intelligence of his capture, coming in the 
 train of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to 
 his unhappy father. " The news," w r e are told, 
 " was brought to him while at supper, and did so 
 overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready 
 to give up the ghost into the hands of the servants 
 that attended him. But being carried to his bed 
 
 K 4
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three 
 days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay."* 
 
 James was detained in captivity above eighteen 
 years ; but, though deprived of personal liberty, he 
 was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care 
 was taken to instruct him in all the branches of 
 useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to 
 give him those mental and personal accomplish 
 ments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps, in 
 this respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, 
 as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclu 
 sively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe 
 that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those 
 elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to 
 his memory. The picture drawn of him in early 
 life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, 
 and seems rather the description of a hero of ro 
 mance, than of a character in real history. He 
 was well learnt, we are told, " to fight with the 
 sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and 
 dance ; he was an expert mediciner ; right crafty in 
 playing both of lute and harp and sundry other in 
 struments of music, and was expert in grammar, 
 oratory, and poetry ."f 
 
 With this combination of manly and delicate ac- 
 
 * Buchanan. 
 
 t Ballcnden s Translation of Hector Boyce.
 
 A ROYAL POET. 137 
 
 complishments, fitting him to shine both in active 
 and elegant life, and calculated to give him an in 
 tense relish for joyous existence, it must have been 
 a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to 
 pass the spring time of his years in monotonous 
 captivity. It was the good fortune of James, how 
 ever, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and 
 to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspira 
 tions of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow 
 inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others, 
 morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the 
 poet to become tender and imaginative in the lone 
 liness of confinement. He banquets upon the 
 honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive 
 bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale, 
 
 A pilgrim coop d into a cage, 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.* 
 
 Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagina 
 tion, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable. That 
 when the real world is shut out, it can create a 
 world for itself, and with a necromantic power, 
 can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and 
 
 * Roger L Estrange.
 
 138 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and 
 irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was 
 the world of pomp and pageant that lived round 
 Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he con 
 ceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem; and 
 we may consider the " King s Quair," composed by 
 James during his captivity at Windsor, as another 
 of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from 
 the restraint and gloom of the prison house. 
 
 The subject of the poem is his love for the 
 Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of So 
 merset, and a princess of the blood-royal of Eng- 
 gland, of whom he became enamoured in the 
 course of his captivity. What gives it peculiar 
 value is, that it may be considered a transcript of 
 the royal bard s true feelings, and the story of his 
 real loves and fortunes. It is not often that sove 
 reigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It 
 is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to find 
 a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission 
 into his closet, and seeking to win his favour by 
 administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of 
 the honest equality of intellectual competition, 
 which strips off all the trappings of factitious dig 
 nity, brings the candidate down to a level with his 
 fellow men, and obliges him to depend on his own 
 native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, 
 to get at the history of a monarch s heart, and to
 
 A HOYAL POET. 
 
 find the simple affections of human nature throb 
 bing under the ermine. But James had learnt to 
 be a poet before he was a king : he was schooled 
 in adversity, and reared in the company of his own 
 thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley 
 with their hearts, or meditate their minds into poe 
 try ; and had James been brought up amidst the 
 adulation and gaiety of a court, we should never, 
 in all probability, have had such a poem as the 
 Quair. 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those parts 
 of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts 
 concerning his situation, or which are connected 
 with the apartment in the tower. They have thus 
 a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
 circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present 
 with the captive in his prison, and the companion 
 of his meditations. 
 
 Such is the account which he gives of his weari 
 ness of spirit, and of the incident that first suggested 
 the idea of writing the poem. It was the still mid- 
 watch of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he 
 says, were twinkling as the fire in the high vault of 
 heaven ; and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in 
 Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and restless, 
 and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The 
 book he chose was Boetius Consolations of Phi- 
 losphy, a work popular among the writers of that
 
 140 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 day, and which had been translated by his great 
 prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in 
 which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his 
 favourite volumes while in prison ; and indeed it is 
 an admirable text-book for meditation under adver 
 sity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring 
 spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeath 
 ing to its successors in calamity, the maxims of 
 sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but 
 simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear 
 up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, 
 which the unfortunate may treasu e up in his bo 
 som, or, like the good King James, lay upon 
 his nightly pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its contents 
 over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of 
 musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes 
 of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken 
 him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears 
 the bell ringing to matins ; but its sound, chiming 
 in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like 
 a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the 
 spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply 
 with this intimation; he therefore takes pen in 
 hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore 
 a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land 
 of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful 
 in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a strik-
 
 A ROYAL POET. 141 
 
 ing and beautiful instance of the simple manner in 
 which whole trains of poetical thought are some 
 times awakened, and literary enterprises suggested 
 to the mind. 
 
 In the course of his poem he more than once 
 bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate; thus 
 doomed to lonely and inactive life, and shut up 
 from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in 
 which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. 
 There is a sweetness however in his very com 
 plaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiable and 
 social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its 
 kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in 
 them harsh or exaggerated ; they flow with a natural 
 and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered 
 more touching by their simple brevity. They con 
 trast finely with those elaborate and iterated repin- 
 ings, which we sometimes meet with in poetry; 
 the effusions of morbid minds, sickening under 
 miseries of their own creating, and venting their 
 bitterness upon an unoffending world. James 
 speaks of his privations with acute sensibility, but 
 having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly 
 mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calami 
 ties. When such a spirit breaks forth into com 
 plaint, however brief, we are aware how great must 
 be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We 
 sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and
 
 142 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of 
 youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and 
 vigorous delights of life; as we do with Milton, 
 alive to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, 
 when he breathes forth brief, but deep-toned 
 lamentations, over his perpetual blindness. 
 
 Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic 
 artifice, we might almost have suspected that these 
 lourings of gloomy reflection were meant as pre 
 parative to the brightest scene of his story; and to 
 contrast with that effulgence of light and loveliness, 
 that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, 
 and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, 
 with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It 
 is this scene in particular, which throws all the 
 magic of romance about the old castle keep. He 
 had risen, he says, at day break, according to cus 
 tom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a 
 sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his chamber thus 
 alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, " fortired 
 of thought and wo-begone," he had wandered to 
 the window, to indulge the captive s miserable 
 solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from 
 which he is excluded. The window looked forth 
 upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the 
 tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with 
 arbours and green alleys, and protected from the 
 passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges.
 
 A ROYAL POET. 143 
 
 Now was there made, fast by the tower s wall, 
 A garden faire, and in the corners set 
 
 An arbour green with wandis long and small 
 Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
 
 Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
 That lyf* was none, walkyng there forbye, 
 That might within scarce any wight espye. 
 
 So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
 
 And midst of every arbour might be seen 
 The sharpe, grene, sweet juniper, 
 
 Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
 The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 
 
 And on the small grene twistist set 
 
 The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
 
 So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 
 That all the garden and the wallis rung 
 
 Right of their song 
 
 It was the month of May, when every thing was 
 in bloom; and he interprets the song of the night 
 ingale into the language of his enamoured feeling: 
 
 Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 
 For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
 
 And sing with us, away, winter away, 
 
 Come, summer come, the sweet season and sun. 
 
 * Lyf, person. f Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 
 
 Note. The language of the quotations is generally modernized.
 
 144 A llOYAL POKT. 
 
 As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the note* 
 of the birds, he gradually lapses into one of those 
 tender and undefinable reveries, which fill the 
 youthful bosom in this delicious season. He won 
 ders what this love may be, of which he has so 
 often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in 
 the quickening breath of May, and melting all 
 nature into ecstacy and song. If it really be so 
 great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally 
 dispensed to the most insignificant of beings, why 
 is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? 
 
 Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 
 
 That love is of such noble myght and ky nde ? 
 
 Loving his folke, and such prosperitce 
 
 Is it of him, as we ia books do find : 
 
 May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd : 
 
 Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 
 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasye? 
 
 For giff he be of so grete excellence, 
 
 That he of every wight hath care and charge, 
 
 What have I gilt t to him, or done offense, 
 That I am thral d, and birdis go at large ? 
 
 In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eyes 
 downward, he beholds " the fairest and the freshest 
 young floure," that ever he had seen. It is the 
 lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy 
 
 v- 
 * Scttcn, incline, t Gilt, what injury have I done, &c.
 
 A ROYAL POET. 14.5 
 
 the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." Break 
 ing thus suddenly upon his sight in the moment of 
 loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once 
 captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and 
 becomes the object of his wandering wishes-, the 
 sovereign of his ideal world. 
 
 There is, in this charming scene, an evident re 
 semblance to the early part of Chaucer s Knight s 
 Tale; where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with 
 Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of 
 their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual 
 fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer, 
 may have induced James to dw r ell on it in his 
 poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given 
 in the picturesque and minute manner of his mas 
 ter ; and being doubtless taken from the life, is a 
 perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He 
 dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every 
 article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splen- 
 dant with emeralds and sapphires, that confined 
 her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of 
 small orfeverye"* about her neck, whereby there 
 hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he 
 says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white 
 bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up 
 .to enable her to walk with more freedom. She 
 
 *- Wrought gold. 
 VOL. 1. I-
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 was accompanied by two female attendants, and 
 about her sported a little hound decorated with 
 bells ; probably the small Italian hound of exqui 
 site symmetry, which was a parlour favourite and 
 pet among the fashionable dames of ancient times. 
 James closes his description by a burst of general 
 eulogium. 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
 Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature ; 
 
 God better knows than my pen can report, 
 
 Wisdom, largesse,* estate,"f~ and cunning $ sure, 
 
 In every point so guided her mesure, 
 
 In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
 That nature might no more her child advance. 
 
 The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden 
 puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. 
 With her departs the amorous illusion that had 
 shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
 captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now ren 
 dered tenfold more intolerable by this passing 
 beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long 
 and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and 
 when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he 
 beautifully expresses it, had " bad farewell to every 
 
 * Largesse, bounty. ) State, dignity. 
 
 if Cunning, discretion.
 
 A ROYAL POET. 14? 
 
 leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and 
 laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to 
 a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until gradually 
 lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, 
 he lapses " half sleeping, half swoon," into a 
 vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, 
 and in which is allegorically shadowed out the his 
 tory of his passion. 
 
 When he wakes from his trance, he rises from 
 his stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of 
 dreary reflections, questions his spirit whither it has 
 been wandering ; whether, indeed, all that has 
 passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
 up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a 
 vision, intended to comfort and assure him in his 
 despondency- If the latter, he prays that some 
 token may be sent to confirm the promise of hap 
 pier days given him in his slumbers. Suddenly a 
 turtle dove of the purest whiteness, comes flying 
 in at the window and alights upon his hand, bearing 
 in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves 
 of which are written, in letters of gold, the fol 
 lowing sentence : 
 
 Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
 The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 
 
 Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
 For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 
 
 He receives the branch with mingled hope and 
 
 L2
 
 148 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 dread ; reads it with rapture : and this, he says, 
 was the first token of his succeeding happiness. 
 Whether this is a mere poetic fiction^ or whether 
 the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
 favour in this romantic way, remains to be deter 
 mined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. 
 He concludes his poem, by intimating that the 
 promise conveyed in the vision and by the flower, 
 is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, and 
 made happy in the possession of the sovereign of 
 his heart. 
 
 Such is the poetical account given by James of 
 his love adventures in Windsor Castle. How much 
 of it is absolute fact, and how much the embellish 
 ment of fancy, it is fruitless to conjecture : do not, 
 however, let us always consider whatever is roman 
 tic as incompatible with real life ; but let us some 
 times take a poet at his word. I have noticed 
 merely such parts of the poem as were immediately 
 connected with the tower, and have passed over a 
 large part, which was in the allegorical vein, so 
 much cultivated at that day. The language, of 
 course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty 
 of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be per 
 ceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not 
 to be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the de 
 lightful artlessness and urbanity, which prevail 
 throughout it. The descriptions of nature, too,
 
 A ROYAL POET. 149 
 
 with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, 
 a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the 
 most cultivated periods of the art- 
 
 As an amatory poem it is edifying, in these days 
 of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refine 
 ment, and exquisite delicacy which pervade it ; 
 banishing every gross thought or immodest ex 
 pression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed 
 in all its chivalrous attributes of almost super 
 natural purity and grace. 
 
 James flourished nearly about the time of Chau 
 cer and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and 
 studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his 
 stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters ; and, 
 in some parts of his poem, we find traces of simi-; 
 larity to their productions, more especially to those 
 of Chaucer. There are always, however, general 
 features of resemblance in the works of contem 
 porary authors, which are not so much borrowed 
 from each other as from the times. Writers, like 
 bees, toll their sweets in the wide world; they in 
 corporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes 
 and thoughts which are current in society; and thus 
 eacli generation has some features in common, cha 
 racteristic of the age in which it lived. 
 
 James in fact belongs to one of the most bril 
 liant eras of our literary history, and establishes the 
 claims of his country to a participation in its primi- 
 L 3
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 tive honours. Whilst a small cluster of English 
 writers are constantly cited as the fathers of, our 
 verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is 
 apt to be passed over in silence ; but he is evideptly 
 worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation 
 of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine 
 in the highest firmament of literature, and who, 
 like morning stars, sang together at the bright 
 dawning of British poesy. 
 
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar with 
 Scottish history (though the manner in which it has 
 of late been woven with captivating fiction has 
 made it a universal study,) may be curious to learn 
 something of the subsequent history of James, and 
 the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady 
 Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it 
 facilitated his release, it being imagined by the 
 court that a connection with the blood royal of 
 England would attach him to its own interests. 
 He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, 
 having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who 
 accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a 
 most tender and devoted wife. 
 
 He found his kingdom in great confusion, the 
 feudal chieftains having taken advantage of the 
 troubles and irregularities of a long interregnum to 
 strengthen themselves in their possessions, and 
 place themselves above the power of the laws.
 
 A ROYAL POET. 151 
 
 James sought to found the basis of his power in 
 the, affections of his people. He attached the 
 lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, 
 the temperate and equable administration of jus 
 tice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and 
 the promotion of every thing that could diffuse 
 comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment 
 through the humblest ranks of society. He 
 mingled occasionally among the common people 
 in disguise, visited their firesides; entered into 
 their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; 
 informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how 
 they could best be patronized and improved ; and 
 was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a. 
 benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. 
 Having in this generous manner made himself 
 strong in the hearts of the common people, he 
 turned himself to curb the power of the factious 
 nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immu 
 nities which they had usurped ; to punish such as 
 had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring 
 the whole into proper obedience to the crown. 
 For some time they bore this with outward sub 
 mission, but secret impatience and brooding re 
 sentment. A conspiracy was at length formed 
 against his life, at the head of which was his own 
 uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being 
 too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of 
 L 4
 
 152 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, 
 Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to com 
 mit the deed. They broke into his bed chamber 
 at the Dominican Convent near Perth, where he 
 was residing, arid barbarously murdered him by oft 
 repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to 
 throw her tender body between him and the sword, 
 was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to 
 shield him from the assassin, and it was not until 
 she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the 
 murder was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale of 
 former times, and of the golden little poem which 
 had its birth place in this tower, that made me visit 
 the old pile with more than common interest. The 
 suit of armour hanging up in the hall, richly gilt 
 and embellished as if to figure in the tournay, 
 brought the image of the gallant and romantic 
 prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the 
 deserted chambers where he had composed his 
 poem; I leaned upon the window and endeavoured 
 to persuade myself it was the very one where he 
 had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon 
 the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane, 
 It was the same genial and joyous month; the 
 birds were again vying with each other in strains 
 of liquid melody; every thing was bursting into 
 vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise
 
 A ROYAL POET. 153 
 
 of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate 
 the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to 
 have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry 
 and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. 
 Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still 
 flourishes at the foot of the tower. It occupies 
 what was once the moat of the keep; and though 
 some parts have been separated by dividing walls, 
 yet others have still their arbours and shaded walks, 
 as in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered, 
 blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a 
 spot that has been printed by the footsteps of de 
 parted beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations 
 of the poet, which is heightened, rather than im 
 paired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift 
 of poetry to hallow every place in which it moves; 
 to breathe round nature an odour more exquisite 
 than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a 
 tint more magical than the blush of morning. 
 
 Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of 
 James as a warrior and a legislator; but I have 
 delighted to view him merely as the companion of 
 his fellow men, the benefactor of the human heart, 
 stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet 
 flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common 
 life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous 
 and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since 
 become so prolific of the most wholesome and
 
 154 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 highly flavoured fruit. He carried with him into 
 the sterner regions of the north, all the fertilizing 
 arts of southern refinement. He did every thing 
 in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the 
 elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine 
 the character of a people, and wreathe a grace 
 round the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. 
 He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for 
 the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; 
 one which is still preserved, called " Christ s Kirk 
 of the Green," shows how diligently he had made 
 himself acquainted with the rustic sports and pas 
 times, which constitute such a source of kind and 
 social feeling among the Scottish peasantry; ami 
 with what simple and happy humour he could 
 enter into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly 
 to improve the national music ; and traces of his 
 tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to 
 exist in those witching airs, still piped among the 
 wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
 has thus connected his image with whatever is 
 most gracious and endearing in the national cha 
 racter ; he has embalmed his memory in song, and 
 floated his name to after-ages in the rich streams 
 of Scottish melody. The recollection of these 
 things was kindling at my heart, as I paced the 
 silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited 
 Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim
 
 A ROYAL POET. 155 
 
 would visit the shrine at Loretto; but I have never 
 felt more poetical devotion than when contem 
 plating the old tower and the little garden at Wind 
 sor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady 
 Jane and the Royal Poet of Scotland.
 
 THE 
 
 COUNTRY CHURCH.
 
 THE 
 
 COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 A gentleman ! 
 
 What, o the woolpack ? or the sugar chest ? 
 Or lists of velvet? which is t, pound, or yard, 
 You vend your gentry by ? 
 
 BEGGAR S BUSH. 
 
 THERE are few places more favourable to the study 
 of character than an English country church. I 
 was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a 
 friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the ap 
 pearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It 
 was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity 
 which give such a peculiar charm to English land 
 scape. It stood in the midst of a country filled 
 with ancient families, and contained, within its cold 
 and silent ailes, the congregated dust of many noble 
 generations. The interior walls were encrusted 
 with monuments of every age and style. The light
 
 160 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 streamed through windows dimmed with armorial 
 bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In 
 various parts of the church were tombs of knights, 
 and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, 
 with their effigies in coloured marble. On every 
 side the eye was struck with some instance of 
 aspiring mortality; some haughty memorial which 
 human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in 
 this temple of the most humble of all religions. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the neigh 
 bouring people of rank, who sat in pews sumptu 
 ously lined and cushioned, furnished with richly- 
 gilded prayer books, and decorated with their arms 
 upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, 
 who filled the back seats, and a small gallery be 
 side the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, who 
 were ranged on benches in the aisles. 
 
 The service was performed by a snuffling, well- 
 fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. 
 He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the 
 neighbourhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter 
 in the county ; until age and good living had dis 
 abled him from doing any thing more than ride to 
 see the hounds throw off, and make one at the 
 hunting dinner. 
 
 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it 
 impossible to get into the train of thought suitable 
 to the time and place ; so having, like many other
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. l6l 
 
 feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, 
 by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
 person s threshold, I occupied myself in making 
 observations on my neighbours. 
 
 I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious 
 to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. 
 I found, as usual, that there was the least preten 
 sion where there was the most acknowledged title 
 to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, 
 with the family of a nobleman of high rank, con 
 sisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing 
 could be more simple and unassuming than their 
 appearance. They generally came to church in 
 the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The 
 young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest 
 manner with the peasantry, caress the children, 
 and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. 
 Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, 
 with an expression of high refinement, but, at the 
 same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engaging 
 affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly 
 formed. They were dressed fashionably, but sim 
 ply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but with 
 out any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole 
 demeanour was easy and natural, with that lofty 
 grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free- 
 born souls that have never been checked in their 
 growth by feelings of inferiority. There is >a 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE COUNT11Y CHURCH. 
 
 healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never 
 dreads contact and communion with others, how 
 ever humble. It is only spurious pride that is 
 morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. 
 I was pleased to see the manner in which they 
 would converse with the peasantry about those 
 rural concerns and field sports, in which the gen 
 tlemen of this country so much delight. In these 
 conversations, there was neither haughtiness on the 
 one part, nor servility on the other ; and you were 
 only reminded of the difference of rank by the 
 habitual respect of the peasant. 
 
 In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy 
 citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune; .and, 
 having purchased the estate and mansion of a 
 ruined nobleman in the neighbourhood, was en 
 deavouring to assume all the style and dignity of an 
 hereditary lord of the soil. The family always 
 came to church en prince. They were rolled ma 
 jestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. 
 The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
 part of the harness where a crest could possibly be 
 placed. A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, 
 richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round 
 his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek 
 Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gor 
 geous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed 
 canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 103 
 
 on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of mo 
 tion. The very horses champed their bits, arched 
 their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly 
 than common horses; either because they had got 
 a little of the family feeling, or were reined up 
 more tightly than ordinary. 
 
 I could not but admire the style with which this 
 splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the 
 church-yard. There was a vast effect produced at 
 the turning of an angle of the wall : a great crack 
 ing of the whip ; straining and scrambling of the 
 horses ; glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels 
 through gravel. This was the moment of triumph 
 and vain glory to the coachman. The horses were 
 urged and checked until they were fretted into a 
 foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, 
 dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd 
 of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened 
 precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant 
 admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses were 
 pulled up with a suddenness that produced an im 
 mediate stop, and almost threw them on their 
 haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman 
 to alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and 
 prepare every thing for the descent on earth of this 
 august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
 round red face from out the door, looking about 
 M C
 
 164 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 him with the pompous air of a man accustomed to 
 rule on Change, and shake the Stock Market with 
 a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable 
 dame, followed him. There seemed, I must con 
 fess, but little pride in her composition. She was 
 the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. 
 The world went well with her ; and she liked the 
 world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine 
 carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about 
 her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting 
 and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; 
 it was one long Lord Mayor s day. 
 
 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. 
 They certainly were handsome ; but had a superci 
 lious air, that chilled admiration, and disposed the 
 spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashion 
 ables in dress ; and, though no one could deny the 
 richness of their decorations, yet their appropriate 
 ness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of a 
 country church. They descended loftily from the 
 carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with 
 a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
 They cast an excursive glance around, that passed 
 coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until 
 they met the eyes of the nobleman s family, when 
 their countenances immediately brightened into 
 smiles, and they made the most profound and ele 
 gant courtesies ; which were returned in a manner 
 that showed they were but slight acquaintances.
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. lG5 
 
 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring 
 citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, 
 with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity 
 of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which 
 marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. 
 They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one 
 askance that came near them, as if measuring his 
 claims to respectability ; yet they were without con 
 versation, except the exchange of an occasional cant 
 phrase. They even moved artificially ; for their 
 bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, 
 had been disciplined into the absence of all ease 
 and freedom. Art had done every thing to accom 
 plish them as men of fashion, but nature had denied 
 them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly 
 shaped, like men formed for the common purposes 
 of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption 
 which is never seen in the true gentleman. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the pic- 
 tures of these two families, because I considered 
 them specimens of what is often to be met with in 
 this country the unpretending great, and the arro~ 
 gant little. I have no respect for titled rank, un 
 less it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; 
 but I have remarked, in all countries where arti 
 ficial distinctions exist, the very highest classes are 
 always the most courteous and unassuming. Those 
 who are well assured of their own standing, arc 
 M 3
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 least apt to trespass on that of others; whereas, 
 nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, 
 which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its 
 neighbour. 
 
 As I have brought these families into contrast, 
 I must notice their behaviour in church. That of 
 the nobleman s family was quiet, serious, and atten 
 tive. Not that they appeared to have any fervour 
 of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, 
 and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. 
 The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual 
 flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual con 
 sciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being 
 the wonders of a rural congregation. 
 
 The old gentleman was the only one really atten 
 tive to the service. He took the whole burden of 
 family devotion upon himself, standing bolt upright 
 and uttering the responses with a loud voice that 
 might be heard all over the church. It was evident 
 that he was one of those thorough church and king 
 men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty; 
 who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the 
 government party, and religion " a very excellent 
 sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and 
 kept up." 
 
 When he joined so loudly in the service, it 
 seemed more by way of example to the lower 
 orders, to show them, that, though so great and
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. lG? 
 
 wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I 
 have seen a turtle-fed Alderman swallow publicly 
 a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every 
 mouthful, and pronouncing it " excellent food for 
 the poor." 
 
 When the service was at an end, I was curious to 
 witness the several exits of my groups. The young 
 noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, pre 
 ferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with 
 the country people as they went. The others de 
 parted as they came, in grand parade. Again were 
 the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was 
 again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, 
 and the glittering of harness. The horses started 
 off almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried 
 to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of 
 dust ; and the aspiring family was wrapt out of 
 sicrht in a whirlwind. 
 
 M 4
 
 THE 
 
 WIDOW AND HER SON.
 
 THE 
 
 WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 Pittie old age, within whose silver haires 
 Honour and reverence evermore have raign d. 
 
 MARLOWE S TAMBURLAINF. 
 
 DURING my residence in the country, I used fre 
 quently to attend at the old village church. Its 
 shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark 
 oaken pannelling, all reverend with the gloom of 
 departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of 
 solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the coun 
 try, is so holy in its repose : such a pensive quiet 
 reigns over the face of nature, that every restless 
 passion is charmed down, and we feel all the na 
 tural religion of the soul gently springing up within 
 us. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky."
 
 172 THE WIDOW 
 
 I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man ; 
 but there are feelings that visit me in a country 
 church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which 
 I experience no where else ; and if not a more re 
 ligious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than 
 on any other day of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually thrown 
 back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of 
 the poor worms around me. The only being that 
 seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and pros 
 trate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepid 
 old woman, bending under the weight of years and 
 infirmities. She bore the traces of something bet 
 ter than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent 
 pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, 
 though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously 
 clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded 
 her, for she did not take her seat among the 
 village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. 
 She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, 
 all society ; and to have nothing left her but the 
 hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising 
 and bending her aged form in prayer habitually 
 conning her prayer book, which her palsied hand 
 and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but 
 which she evidently knew by heart I felt per 
 suaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman 
 arose to heaven far before the responses of the
 
 AND HER SON. 173 
 
 clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the 
 choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, 
 and this was so delightfully situated, that it fre 
 quently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round 
 which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and 
 then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
 meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by 
 yew trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. 
 Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among 
 them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling 
 about it. I was seated there one still sunny morn 
 ing, watching two labourers who were digging a 
 grave. They had chosen one of the most remote 
 and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where, 
 from the number of nameless graves around, it 
 would appear that the indigent and friendless were 
 huddled into the earth. I was told that the new 
 made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
 While I was meditating on the distinctions of 
 worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very 
 dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach 
 of the funeral. They were the obsequies of po 
 verty, with which pride had nothing to do. A cof 
 fin of the plainest materials, without pall or other 
 covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The 
 sexton walked before with an air of cold indiffe 
 rence. There were no mock mourners in the trap-
 
 174 THE WIDOW % 
 
 pings of affected woe ; but there was one real 
 mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It 
 was the aged mother of the deceased the poor old 
 woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of 
 the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, 
 who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of 
 the neighbouring poor had joined the train, and 
 some children of the village were running hand in 
 hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now 
 pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the 
 grief of the mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, the 
 parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the 
 surplice, with prayer book in hand, and attended 
 by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere 
 act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, 
 and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuffled 
 through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeel 
 ingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps 
 from the church door ; his voice could scarcely be 
 heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the fune 
 ral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, 
 turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed 
 on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and 
 age of the deceased " George Somers, aged 26 
 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
 kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands
 
 AND HER SON. 175 
 
 were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive, 
 by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive 
 motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last 
 relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother s 
 heart. 
 
 The service being ended, preparations were made 
 to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that 
 bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings 
 of grief and affection : directions given in the cold 
 tones of business ; the striking of spades into sand 
 and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we love, 
 is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle 
 around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched 
 reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked 
 about with a faint wildness. As the men approached 
 with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she 
 wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. 
 The poor woman who attended her took her by 
 the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the earth, 
 and to whisper something like consolation " Nay, 
 now nay, now don t take it so sorely to heart." 
 She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, 
 as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the 
 creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but 
 when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a 
 justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mo 
 ther burst forth ; as if anv harm could come to
 
 176 THE WIDOW 
 
 him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suf 
 fering. 
 
 I could see no more my heart swelled into my 
 throat- my eyes filled with tears I felt as if I 
 were acting a barbarous part in standing by and 
 gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I 
 wandered to another part of the church yard, where 
 I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully 
 quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains 
 of all that was dear to her on earth, and return 
 ing to silence and destitution, my heart ached 
 for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the 
 rich ! they have friends to soothe pleasures to 
 beguile a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. 
 What are the sorrows of the young ! Their grow 
 ing minds soon close above the wound their elastic 
 spirits soon rise beneath the pressure -their green 
 and ductile affections soon twine round new ob 
 jects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no 
 outward appliances to soothe the sorrows of the 
 aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, 
 and who can look for no after-growth of joy the 
 sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourn 
 ing over an only son, the last solace of her years ; 
 these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the 
 impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the church yard. 
 On my way homeward I met with the woman who
 
 AND HER SON. 177 
 
 had acted as comforter: she was just returning 
 from accompanying the mother to her lonely habi 
 tation, and I drew from her some particulars con 
 nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the 
 village from childhood. They had inhabited one 
 of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occu 
 pations, and the assistance of a small garden, had 
 supported themselves creditably and comfortably, 
 and led a happy and a blameless life. They had 
 one son, who had grown up to be the staff and 
 pride of their age. " Oh, Sir !" said the good 
 woman, " he was such a likely lad, so sweet-tem 
 pered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful 
 to his parents ! It did one s heart good, to see him 
 of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so 
 straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
 church for she was always fonder of leaning on 
 George s arm, than on her good man s ; and, poor 
 soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer 
 lad there was not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a 
 year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter 
 into the service of one of the small craft that plied 
 on a neighbouring river. He had not been long in 
 this employ, when he was entrapped by a press- 
 gang, and carried off to sea. His parents re 
 ceived tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they 
 
 VOL. i. N
 
 178 THE WIDOW 
 
 could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main 
 prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew 
 heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. 
 The widow, left lonely in her age and feeble 
 ness, could no longer support herself, and came 
 upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling 
 toward her throughout the village, and a certain 
 respect, as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As 
 no one applied for the cottage, in which she had 
 passed so many happy days, she was permitted to 
 remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost 
 helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly 
 supplied from the scanty productions of her little 
 garden, which the neighbours would now and then 
 cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the 
 time at which these circumstances \vere told me, 
 that she was gathering some vegetables for her re 
 past, when she heard the cottage door which faced 
 the garden suddenly open. A stranger came out, 
 and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. 
 He was dressed in seamen s clothes, was emaciated 
 and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by 
 sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
 toward her, but his steps were faint and faultering ; 
 he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a 
 child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a 
 vacant and wandering eye " Oh my dear, dear 
 mother! don t you know your son? your poor boy
 
 AND HER SON. 179 
 
 George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once 
 noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness 
 and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged 
 his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the 
 scenes of his childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of 
 such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so 
 completely blended : still he was alive ! he was come 
 home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her 
 old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; 
 and if any thing had been wanting to finish the 
 work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage 
 would have been sufficient. He stretched himself 
 on the pallet on which his widowed mother had 
 passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose 
 from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George 
 Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering 
 every comfort and assistance that their humble 
 means afforded. He was too weak, however, to 
 talk he could only look his thanks. His mother 
 was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwil 
 ling to be helped by any other hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down 
 the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and 
 brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that 
 has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness 
 and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary 
 N 2
 
 180 THE WIDOW 
 
 bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; 
 but has thought on the mother " that looked on his 
 childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and admi 
 nistered to his helplessness. Oh ! there is an en 
 during tenderness in the love of a mother to a son 
 that transcends all other affections of the heart. It 
 is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted 
 by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
 stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every 
 comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender 
 every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in 
 his fame, and exult in his prosperity : and, if ad 
 versity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by 
 misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, 
 she will still love and cherish him ; and if all the 
 world beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
 to him. 
 
 Poor George Somers had known well what it 
 was to be in sickness, and none to soothe lonely 
 and in prison, and none to visit him. He could 
 not endure his mother from his sight ; if she moved 
 away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for 
 hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Some 
 times he would start from a feverish dream and look 
 anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bend 
 ing over him ; when he would take her hand, lay it 
 on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity 
 of a child. In this way he died.
 
 AND HER SON. 181 
 
 My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of 
 affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, 
 and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possi 
 ble, comfort. I found, however, on enquiry, that 
 the good feelings of the villagers had prompted 
 them to do every thing that the case admitted : and 
 as the poor know best how to console each other s 
 sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church ; 
 when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman 
 tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on 
 the steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something like 
 mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more 
 touching than this struggle between pious affection 
 and utter poverty : a black riband or so a faded 
 black handkerchief, and one or two more such 
 humble attempts to express by outward signs that 
 grief which passes show. When I looked round 
 upon the storied monuments ; the stately hatch 
 ments ; the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur 
 mourned magnificently over departed pride ; and 
 turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age 
 and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up 
 the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken 
 heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief 
 was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy mem- 
 N 3
 
 182 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 bers of the congregation, and they were moved by 
 it. They exerted themselves to render her situa 
 tion more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. 
 It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the 
 grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she 
 was missed from her usual seat at church, and be 
 fore I left the neighbourhood, I heard, with a feel 
 ing of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed 
 her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in 
 that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
 are never parted.
 
 THE 
 
 BOARS HEAD TAVERN. 
 
 N 4
 
 THE 
 
 BOAR S HEAD TAVERN, 
 EASTCHEAP. 
 
 A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 
 
 " A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I 
 have heard my great grandfather tell, how his great grandfather should say, 
 that it was an old proverb when his great grandfather was a child, that it 
 was a good wind that blew a man to the wine. " 
 
 MOTHER KOMBIi:. 
 
 IT is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, 
 to honour the memory of saints by votive lights 
 burnt before their pictures. The popularity of a 
 saint, therefore, may be known by the number of 
 these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder 
 in the darkness of his little chapel ; another may 
 have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays 
 athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adora-
 
 180 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 tion is lavished at the shrine of some beautiful 
 father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his 
 huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot his seven 
 branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pil 
 grim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is 
 thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his 
 little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, 
 that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often 
 apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an 
 unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by 
 the officiousness of his followers. 
 
 In like manner has it fared with the immortal 
 Shakspeare. Every writer considers it his bounden 
 duty to light up some portion of his character or 
 works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. 
 The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast 
 tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors 
 send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the 
 bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler 
 brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research, 
 to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 
 
 As I honour all established usages of my brethren 
 of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute 
 my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious 
 bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled 
 in what way I should discharge this duty. I found 
 myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; 
 every doubtful line had been explained a dozen
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 187 
 
 different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of 
 elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they had all 
 been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so 
 completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded 
 with panegyric by a great German critic, that it was 
 difficult now to find even a fault that had not been 
 argued into a beauty. 
 
 In this perplexity, I was one morning turning 
 over his pages, when I casually opened upon the 
 comic scenes of Henry IV. and was, in a moment, 
 completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar s 
 Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these 
 scenes of humour depicted, and with such force and 
 consistency are the characters sustained, that they 
 become mingled up in the mind with the facts and 
 personages of real life. To few readers does it 
 occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet s 
 brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry 
 roysters ever enlivened the dull neighbourhood of 
 Eastcheap. 
 
 For my part, I love to give myself up to the illu 
 sions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed, 
 is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that 
 existed a thousand years since : and, if I may be 
 excused such an insensibility to the common ties of 
 human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half 
 the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the 
 heroes of yore done for me, or men like me ? They
 
 188 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy 
 an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do 
 not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished examples 
 of hair brained prowess, which I have neither the 
 opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old 
 Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack 
 Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human 
 enjoyment ; he has added vast regions of wit and 
 good humour, in which the poorest man may revel ; 
 and has bequeathed a never failing inheritance of 
 jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better 
 to the latest posterity. 
 
 A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a 
 pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, 
 " and see if the old Boar s Head Tavern still exists. 
 Who knows but I may light upon some legendary 
 traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, 
 there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the 
 halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper 
 enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with 
 generous wine." 
 
 The resolution was no sooner formed than put in 
 execution. I forbear to treat of the various adven 
 tures and wonders I encountered in my travels ; of 
 the haunted regions of Cock-lane; of the faded 
 glories of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; 
 what perils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry ; 
 of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 189 
 
 giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the 
 terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited 
 London Stone, and struck my staff" upon it, in imi 
 tation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. 
 
 Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in 
 merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and 
 wassail, where the very names of the streets relished 
 of good cheer, as Pudding-lane bears testimony 
 even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old 
 Stow, " was always famous for its convivial doings. 
 The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef rested, pies 
 well baked, and other victuals : there was clattering 
 of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! 
 how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring 
 days of Falstaff and old Stow. The madcap royster 
 has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the 
 clattering of pots and the sound of " harpe and 
 sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed ding 
 ing of the dustman s bell ; and no song is heard, 
 save, haply, the strain of some syren from Billings 
 gate, chaunting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 
 
 I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame 
 Quickly. The only relique of it is a boar s head, 
 carved in relief in stone, which formerly served as 
 the sign ; but, at present, is built into the parting 
 line of two houses, which stand on the site of the 
 renowned old tavern. 
 
 For the history of this little empire of good fel-
 
 190 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 lowship, I was referred to a tallow-chandler s widow, 
 opposite, who had been born and brought up on 
 the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable 
 chronicler of the neighbourhood. I found her 
 seated in a little back parlour, the window of which 
 looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, 
 laid out as a flower garden; while a glass door op 
 posite afforded a distant peep of the street, through 
 a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, 
 which comprised, in all probability, her prospects 
 in life, and the little world in which she had lived, 
 and moved, and had her being, for the better part 
 of a century. 
 
 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great 
 and little, from London Stone even unto the Mo 
 nument, was, doubtless, in her opinion, to be ac 
 quainted with the history of the universe. Yet, 
 with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true 
 wisdom, and that liberal, communicative disposi 
 tion, which I have generally remarked in intelligent 
 old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neigh 
 bourhood. 
 
 Her information, however, did not extend far 
 back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon- 
 the history of the Boar s Head, from the time that 
 Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the 
 great fire of London, when it was unfortunately burnt 
 down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 1Q1 
 
 under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, 
 struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, 
 and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinful 
 race of publicans, endeavoured to make his peace 
 with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Mi 
 chael s Church, Crooked-lane, toward the support 
 ing of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings 
 were regularly held there ; but it was observed that 
 the old Boar never held up his head under church 
 government. He gradually declined, and finally 
 gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The 
 tavern was then turned into shops ; but she informed 
 me, that a picture of it was still preserved in St. 
 Michael s Church, which stood just in the rear. 
 To get a sight of this picture was now my de 
 termination, so, having informed myself of the abode 
 of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable 
 chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless 
 raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and 
 furnished an important incident in the history of 
 her life. 
 
 It cost me some difficulty, and much curious 
 inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the 
 church. I had to explore Crooked Lane, and divers 
 little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with 
 which this old city is perforated, like an ancient 
 cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At 
 length I traced him to a corner of a small court,
 
 192 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants 
 enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a 
 community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The 
 sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a 
 bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant twinkle 
 in his eye, and if encouraged, would now and then 
 hazard a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low 
 estate might venture to make in the company of 
 high churchwardens, and other mighty men of the 
 earth. I found him in company with the deputy 
 organist, seated apart, like Milton s angels ; dis 
 coursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and 
 settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot 
 of ale for the lower classes of English seldom 
 deliberate on any weighty matter without the assist 
 ance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. 
 I arrived at the moment when they had finished 
 their ale and their argument, and were about to 
 repair to the church to put it in order ; so, having 
 made known my wishes, I received their gracious 
 permission to accompany them. 
 
 The church of St. Michael s, Crooked Lane, 
 standing at a short distance from Billingsgate, is 
 enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of 
 renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy of 
 glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume 
 the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden 
 time is regarded with as much reverence by succeed-
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 193 
 
 ing generations of the craft, as poets feel on con 
 templating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the 
 monument of a Marlborough or a Turenne. 
 
 I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of 
 illustrious men, to observe that St. Michael s, 
 Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of that 
 doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, 
 \vho so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
 Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honourable 
 blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record 
 famous for deeds of arms : the sovereigns of 
 Cockney being generally renowned as the most 
 pacific of all potentates.* 
 
 * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of 
 this worthy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great confla 
 gration. 
 
 Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
 William Walworth callyd by name : 
 Fishmonger he was in lyfftirne here, 
 And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
 Who, with courage stout and manly inyght, 
 Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard s sight. 
 For which act done, and trew entent, 
 The King made him knyght incontinent; 
 And gave him armcs, as liere you see, 
 To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
 He left this lyff the yere of our God 
 Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd. 
 
 An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the 
 venerable Stow. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread 
 abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully 
 VOL. I. O
 
 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, im 
 mediately under the back windows of what was 
 once the Boar s Head, stands the tomb-stone of 
 Robert Preston, whilome drawer at the tavern. It 
 is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of 
 good liquor closed his bustling career, and was 
 thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. 
 As I was clearing away the weeds from his epi 
 taph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a 
 mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice, 
 that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, 
 when the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, 
 banging about doors and windows, and twirling 
 weathercocks, so that the living were frightened 
 out of their beds, and even the dead could not 
 sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest 
 Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
 church-yard, was attracted by the well-known call 
 of " waiter" from the Boar s Head, and made its 
 sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, 
 just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from 
 the " mirrie garland of Captain Death;" to the 
 
 by Sir William Wai worth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named 
 Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash 
 conceived doubt by sucli testimony as I find in ancient and good 
 records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were 
 Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack, Straw, 
 &c. &c." STOW S LONDON.
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. ]Q5 
 
 discomfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the 
 conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a 
 zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known 
 to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of 
 business. 
 
 I beg it may be remembered, that I do not 
 pledge myself for the authenticity of this anecdote ; 
 though it is well known that the church-yards and 
 bye-corners of this old metropolis are very much 
 infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must 
 have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the appa 
 rition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which 
 has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out 
 of their wits. 
 
 Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems 
 to have been a worthy successor to the nimble- 
 tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of 
 Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his 
 " anon, anon, sir ;" and to have transcended his 
 predecessor in honesty ; for Falstaflf, the veracity of 
 whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly 
 accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack; whereas, 
 honest Preston s epitaph lauds him for the sobriety 
 of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the 
 fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries 
 
 * As this inscription is rife Trith excellent morality, T transcribe it 
 for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the 
 
 o 2
 
 THE BOARS HEAD 
 
 of the church, however, did not appear much cap 
 tivated by the sober virtues of the tapster ; the 
 deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the 
 eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemious 
 ness of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; 
 and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a 
 significant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. 
 
 Thus far my researches, though they threw much 
 light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and 
 Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great 
 object of my quest, the picture of the Boar s Head 
 Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the 
 church of St. Michael. " Marry and amen !" said 
 I, " here endeth my research !" So I was giving 
 the matter up with the air of a baffled antiquary, 
 when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be 
 curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, of- 
 
 production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar s 
 
 Head. 
 
 Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
 Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
 Though rear d among full hogsheads, he defy d 
 The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
 O reader, if to justice thou rt inclined, 
 Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
 He drew good wine, took care to iill his pots, 
 Had sundry virtues that excus d his faults. 
 You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
 Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.
 
 TAfVERN, EASTCHEAP. 197 
 
 fered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, 
 which had been handed down from remote] times, 
 when the parish meetings were held at the Boar s 
 Head. These were deposited in the parish club 
 room, which had been transferred, on the decline of 
 the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neigh 
 bourhood. 
 
 A few steps brought us to the house, which 
 stands No. 12, Mile Lane, bearing the title of The 
 Mason s Arms, and is kept by Master Edward 
 Honeyball, the " bully-rock" of the establishment. 
 It is one of those little taverns which abound in 
 the heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip 
 and intelligence of the neighbourhood. We en 
 tered the bar-room, which was narrow and dark 
 ling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of re 
 flected light are enabled to struggle down to the 
 inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a 
 tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into 
 boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean 
 white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that 
 the guests were of the good old stamp, and di 
 vided their day equally, for it was but just one 
 o clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear 
 coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roast 
 ing. A row of bright brass candlesticks and 
 pewter mugs glistened along the mantle piece, 
 and an old fashioned clock ticked in one corner, 
 o3
 
 198 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 There was something primitive in this medley of 
 kitchen, parlour, and hall, that carried me back to 
 earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, 
 was humble, but every thing had that look of order 
 and neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence 
 of a notable English housewife. A group of am 
 phibious looking beings, who might be either 
 fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in 
 one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather 
 higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little mis 
 shapen back room, having at least nine corners. It 
 was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with anti 
 quated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the 
 portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated 
 to particular customers, and I found a shabby 
 gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated 
 in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of 
 porter. 
 
 The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, 
 and with an air of profound importance imparted 
 to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, 
 plump, bustling, little woman, and no bad substi 
 tute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. 
 She seemed delighted with an opportunity to 
 oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of 
 her house, where the precious vessels of the parish 
 club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 
 courtesying, with them in her hands. 
 
 The first she presented me was a japanned iron
 
 TAVERN, EASTCAEAP. 199 
 
 tobacco box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was 
 told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meet 
 ings, since time immemorial ; and which was never 
 suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used 
 on common occasions. I received it with becom 
 ing reverence ; but what was my delight, at behold 
 ing on its cover the identical painting of which I 
 was in quest. There was displayed the outside of 
 the Boar s Head Tavern, and before the door was 
 to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in 
 full revel; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and 
 force, with which the portraits of renowned gene 
 rals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco 
 boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, how 
 ever, there should be any mistake, the cunning 
 limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince 
 Hal and FalstafF on the bottoms of their chairs. 
 
 On the inside of the cover was an inscription, 
 nearly obliterated, recording that this box was the 
 gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry 
 meetings at the Boar s Head Tavern, and that it 
 was " repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. 
 John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful descrip 
 tion of this august and venerable relique ; and I 
 question whether the learned Scriblerius contem 
 plated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the 
 Round Table the long-sought san-greal, with more 
 exultation. 
 
 While I was meditating on it with enraptured 
 o 4
 
 fiOO THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 gaze, Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified 
 by the interest it excited, put in my hands a drink 
 ing cup or goblet, which also belonged to the 
 vestry, and was descended from the old Boar s 
 Head. It bore the inscription of having been the 
 gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she 
 told me, in exceeding great value, being considered 
 very " antyke." This last opinion was strengthened 
 by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil 
 cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspect to be a 
 lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He 
 suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot 
 of porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, 
 exclaimed, " aye, aye ! the head don t ache now 
 that made that there article !" 
 
 The great importance attached to this memento 
 of ancient revelry by modern churchwardens, at 
 first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the 
 apprehension so much as antiquarian research ; for 
 I immediately perceived that this could be no other 
 than the identical " parcel gilt goblet" on which 
 Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to 
 Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be 
 treasured up with care among the regalia of her 
 domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* 
 
 * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my 
 Dolpliin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednes 
 day in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening 
 his father to a singing man of Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then,
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 201 
 
 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history 
 how the goblet had been handed down from gene 
 ration to generation. She also entertained me with 
 many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen 
 who have seated themselves thus quietly on the 
 stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, 
 like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke 
 in honour of Shakspeare. These I forbear to re 
 late, lest my readers should not be as curious in 
 these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the 
 neighbours, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe 
 that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and 
 revelled there. Nay, there are several legendary 
 anecdotes concerning him still extant among the 
 oldest frequenters of the Mason s Arms, which 
 they give, as transmitted down from their fore 
 fathers ; and Mr. M Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, 
 whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar s 
 Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack s, not laid 
 down in the books, with which he makes his cus 
 tomers ready to die of laughter. 
 
 I now turned to my friend the sexton to make 
 some farther inquiries, but I found him sunk in 
 pensive meditation. His head had declined a little 
 on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the very 
 bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not 
 
 as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, 
 thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Henry IV. Part 2.
 
 THE BOAR S HEAD 
 
 see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was 
 evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I 
 followed the direction of his eye through the door 
 which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on 
 the savoury breast of lamb, roasting in dripping 
 richness before the fire. 
 
 I now called to mind, that in the eagerness of 
 my recondite investigation, I was keeping the poor 
 man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with 
 sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of 
 my gratitude and good will, I departed with a hearty 
 benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the 
 Parish Club of Crooked Lane ; not forgetting 
 my shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth 
 hat and copper nose. 
 
 Thus have I given a " tedious brief" account of 
 this interesting research, for which, if it prove too 
 short and unsatisfactory, I can only plead my in 
 experience in this branch of literature, so deser 
 vedly popular at the present day. I am aware 
 that a more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard 
 would have swelled the materials I have touched 
 upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising 
 the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, 
 and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent 
 fishmongers of St. Michael s ; the history of East- 
 cheap, great and little ; private anecdotes of Dame 
 Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have
 
 TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 205 
 
 not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel 
 tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, 
 I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot 
 and ancle ;) the whole enlivened by the riots of 
 Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of 
 London. 
 
 All this I leave as a rich mine, to be worked by 
 future commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing 
 the tobacco-box, and the " parcel-gilt goblet," 
 which I have thus brought to light, the subjects of 
 future engravings, and almost as fruitful of volu 
 minous dissertations and disputes as the shield of 
 Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase.
 
 THE 
 
 A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
 
 THE 
 
 MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 
 
 A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
 In time s great periods shall return to nought. 
 
 I know that all the muse s heavenly layes, 
 With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few or none arc sought, 
 
 That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 
 
 DRUMMOND OF II AWTHOTl NDF.K. 
 
 THERE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, 
 in which we naturally steal away from noise and 
 glare, and seek some quiet haunt, where we may 
 indulge our reveries and build our air castles un 
 disturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about 
 the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, en 
 joying that luxury of wandering thought which one 
 is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when 
 suddenly an irruption of mad-cap boys from West-
 
 208 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 minster School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon 
 the monastic stillness of the place, making the 
 vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with 
 their merriment. I sought to take refuge from 
 their noise by penetrating still deeper into the soli 
 tudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers 
 for admission to the library. He conducted me 
 through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture 
 of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy pas 
 sage leading to the Chapter-house and the chamber 
 in which Doomsday Book is deposited. Just 
 within the passage is a small door on the left. To 
 this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, 
 and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. 
 We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and 
 passing through a second door, entered the library. 
 I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof 
 supported by massive joists of old English oak. 
 It was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows 
 at a considerable height from the floor, and which 
 apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. 
 An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of 
 the church in his robes hung over the fire-place. 
 Around the hall and in a small gallery were the 
 books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They con 
 sisted principally of old polemical writers, and were 
 much more worn by time than use. In the centre 
 of the library was a solitary table with two or three
 
 OF LITERATURE. 209 
 
 books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few 
 pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed 
 fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It 
 was buried deep among the massive walls of the 
 abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. 
 I could only hear now and then the shouts of the 
 school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and 
 the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that echoed 
 soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees 
 the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, 
 and at length died away. The bell ceased to toll, 
 and a profound silence reigned through the dusky 
 hall. 
 
 I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
 bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated 
 myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. In 
 stead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the 
 solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, 
 into a train of musing. As I looked around upon 
 the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus 
 ranged on the shelves, and apparently never dis 
 turbed in their repose, I could not but consider 
 the library a kind of literary catacomb, where au 
 thors, like mummies, are piously entombed, and 
 left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. 
 
 How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 
 now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some 
 aching head ! how many weary days ! how many 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 sleepless nights ! How have their authors buried 
 themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; 
 shut themselves up from the face of man, and the 
 still more blessed face of nature ; and devoted 
 themselves to painful research and intense reflec 
 tion ! and all for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty 
 shelf to have the title of their works read now and 
 then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or 
 casual straggler like myself; and in another age to 
 be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount 
 of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary 
 rumour, a local sound ; like the tone of that bell 
 which has just tolled among these towers, rilling 
 the ear for a moment lingering transiently in echo 
 and then passing away like a thing that was not ! 
 While I sat half murmuring, half meditating 
 these unprofitable speculations, with my head rest 
 ing on my hand, I was thrumming with the other 
 hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened 
 the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the 
 little book gave two or three yawns, like one awak 
 ing from a deep sleep ; then a husky hem ; and at 
 length began to talk. At first its voice was very 
 hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cob 
 web which some studious spider had woven across 
 it; and having probably contracted a cold from 
 long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. 
 In a short time, however, it became more distinct,
 
 OF LITERATURE. 211 
 
 and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent con 
 versable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was 
 rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, 
 what, in the present day, would be deemed bar 
 barous ; but I shall endeavour, as far as I am 
 able, to render it in modern parlance. 
 
 It began with railings about the neglect of the 
 world about merit being suffered to languish in 
 obscurity, and other such common-place topics of 
 literary repining, and complained bitterly that it 
 had not been opened for more than two centuries. 
 That the Dean only looked now and then into the 
 library, sometimes took down a volume or two, 
 trifled with them for a few moments, and then re 
 turned them to their shelves. " What a plague do 
 they mean," said the little quarto, which I began 
 to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what a plague 
 do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes 
 of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old 
 vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely 
 to be looked at now and then by the Dean ? 
 Books were written to give pleasure and to be en 
 joyed; and I would have a rule passed that the 
 Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a 
 year; or if he is not equal to the task, let them 
 once in a while turn loose the whole school of 
 Westminster among us, that at any rate we may 
 now and then have an airing."
 
 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 " Softly, my worthy friend," replied T, " you are 
 not aware how much better you are off than most 
 books of your generation. By being stored away 
 in this ancient library, you are like the treasured 
 remains of those saints and monarchs which lie 
 enshrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the re 
 mains of their contemporary mortals, left to the 
 ordinary course of nature, have long since returned 
 to dust." 
 
 " Sir, " said the little tome, ruffling his leaves 
 and looking big, " I was written for all the world, 
 not for the bookworms of an abbey. I was in 
 tended to circulate from hand to hand, like other 
 great contemporary works ; but here have I been 
 clasped up for more than two centuries, and might 
 have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are 
 playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if 
 you had not by chance given me an opportunity of 
 uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 
 
 " My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been 
 left to the circulation of which you speak, you 
 would long ere this have been no more. To judge 
 from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken 
 in years : very few of your contemporaries can be 
 at present in existence ; and those few owe their 
 longevity to being immured like yourself in old 
 libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of liken 
 ing to harems, you might more properly and
 
 OF LITERATURE. 213 
 
 gratefully have compared to those infirmaries at 
 tached to religious establishments, for the benefit 
 of the old and decrepid, and where, by quiet fos 
 tering and no employment, they often endure to 
 an amazingly good-for-nothing aid age. You 
 talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation 
 where do you meet with their works ? what do we 
 hear of Robert Groteste of Lincoln ? No one 
 could have toiled harder than he for immortality. 
 He is said to have written nearly two hundred 
 volumes. He built as it were, a pyramid of books 
 to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid 
 has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are 
 scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely 
 disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we 
 hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, anti 
 quary, philosopher, theologian, and poet ? He de 
 clined two bishoprics that he might shut himself 
 up and write for posterity ; but posterity never 
 inquires after his labours. What of Henry of 
 Huntingdon, who, beside a learned history of 
 England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the 
 world, which the world has revenged by forgetting 
 him. W T hat is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled 
 the miracle of his age in classical composition ? 
 Of his three great heroic poems one is lost for ever, 
 excepting a mere fragment ; the others are known 
 only to a few of the curious in literature ; and as to
 
 214 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely 
 disappeared. What is in current use of John 
 Wallis, the Franciscan, \vho acquired the name of 
 the Tree of Life ? Of William of Malmsbury ; of 
 Simeon of Durham ; of Benedict of Peters- 
 borough ; of John Hanvil of St. Albans ; of " 
 
 " Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy 
 tone, " how old do you think me ? You are talk 
 ing of authors that lived long before my time, and 
 wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a 
 manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be 
 forgotten ;* but I, Sir, was ushered into the world 
 from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. 
 1 was written in my own native tongue, at a time 
 when the language had become fixed ; and indeed 
 I was considered a model of pure and elegant Eng 
 lish." 
 
 (I should observe that these remarks were 
 couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, that 
 I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into 
 modern phraseology.) 
 
 " I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your 
 age ; but it matters little ; almost all the writers of 
 
 * In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great de- 
 lyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there 
 ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the 
 Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in hearyng of French 
 men s Englishe. Chaucer s Testament of Love.
 
 OF LITERATURE. 215 
 
 your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness ; 
 and De Worde s publications are mere literary 
 rarities among book-collectors. The purity and 
 stability of language, too, on which you found your 
 claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious de 
 pendence of authors of every age, even back to 
 the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who 
 wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* 
 Even now, many talk of Spenser s " well of pure 
 English undefined," as if the language ever sprang 
 from a well or fountain head, and was not rather a 
 mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually 
 subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this 
 which has made English literature so extremely mu 
 table, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. 
 Unless thought can be committed to something 
 more permanent and unchangeable than such a 
 medium, even thought must share the fate of every 
 thing else, and fall into decay. This should serve 
 as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the 
 
 * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by 
 diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of 
 Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lyd- 
 gate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent 
 passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection 
 until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of 
 Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have 
 fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise and 
 immortal commendation." 
 
 p 4
 
 216 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 most popular writer. He finds the language in 
 which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, 
 and subject to the dilapidations of time and the 
 caprice of fashion. He looks back and beholds the 
 early authors of his country, once the favourites of 
 their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
 short ages have covered them with obscurity, and 
 their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste 
 of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will 
 be the fate of his own work, which, however it 
 may be admired in its day, and held up as a model 
 of purity, will in the course of years grow anti 
 quated and obsolete ; until it should become almost 
 as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian 
 obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said to 
 exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added 
 I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate a 
 modern library, filled with new works in all the 
 bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed 
 to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes when 
 he surveyed his amry, pranked out in all the splen 
 dour of military array, and reflected that in one 
 hundred years not one of them would be in exist 
 ence !" 
 
 " Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, 
 " I see how it is ; these modern scribblers have 
 superseded all the good old authors. I suppose 
 nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sydney s
 
 OF LITERATURE. 21? 
 
 Arcadia, Sackville s stately plays, and Mirror for 
 Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the 
 " unparalleled John Lyly." 
 
 " There you are again mistaken," said I, " the 
 writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they 
 happened to be so when you were last in circula 
 tion, have long since had their day. Sir Philip 
 Sydney s Arcadia, the immortality of which was so 
 fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, in 
 truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, 
 and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever 
 mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; 
 and even Lyly, though his writings were once the 
 delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by 
 a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. 
 A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled 
 at the time, have likewise gone down, with all their 
 writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of 
 succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they 
 are buried so deep, that it is only now and then 
 that some industrious diver after fragments of an- 
 
 * Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and 
 the golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the 
 world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath 
 of the muses, the honey bee of the dayntiest flowers of witt and arte, 
 the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in 
 the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirile of Practise 
 in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. 
 
 Harvey s Pierct s Supererogation.
 
 218 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 tiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of 
 the curious." 
 
 " For my part," I continued, " I consider this 
 mutability of language a wise precaution of Provi 
 dence for the benefit of the world at large, and of 
 authors in particular. To reason from analogy ; 
 we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of 
 vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the 
 fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, 
 to make way for their successors. Were not this 
 the case, the fecundity of nature would be a griev 
 ance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan 
 with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface 
 become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the 
 works of genius and learning decline and make way 
 for subsequent productions. Language gradually 
 varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors 
 who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, 
 the creative powers of genius would overstock the 
 world, and the mind would be completely bewildered 
 in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there 
 were some restraints on this excessive multiplica 
 tion. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which 
 was a slow and laborious operation : they were 
 written either on parchment, which was expensive, 
 so that one work was often erased to make way for 
 another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and ex 
 tremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and
 
 OF LITERATURE. 
 
 unprofitable craft, and pursued chiefly by monks in 
 the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The ac 
 cumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and 
 confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these 
 circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing 
 that we have not been inundated by the intellect of 
 antiquity ; that the fountains of thought have not 
 been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the 
 deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press 
 have put an end to all these restraints. They have 
 made every one a writer, and enabled every mind 
 to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the 
 whole intellectual world. The consequences are 
 alarming. The stream of literature has swoln into 
 a torrent augmented into a river expanded into 
 a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred 
 manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what 
 would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, 
 containing three and four hundred thousand vo 
 lumes ; legions of authors at the same time busy ; 
 and the press going on with fearfully increasing ac 
 tivity, to double and quadruple the number? Un 
 less some unforeseen mortality should break out 
 among the progeny of the muse, now that she has 
 become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear 
 the mere fluctuation of language will not be suffi 
 cient. Criticism may do much. It increases with 
 the increase of literature, and resembles one of
 
 220 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 those salutary checks on population spoken of by 
 economists. All possible encouragement, there 
 fore, should be given to the growth of critics, good 
 or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism 
 do what it may, writers will write, printers will 
 print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked 
 with good books. It will soon be the employment 
 of a life time merely to learn their names. Many a 
 man of passable information, at the present day, 
 reads scarcely any thing but reviews ; and before 
 long a man of erudition will be little better than a 
 mere walking catalogue." 
 
 " My very good Sir," said the little quarto, yawn 
 ing most drearily in my face, " excuse my inter 
 rupting you, but I perceive you are rather given to 
 prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was 
 making some noise just as I left the world. His re 
 putation, however, was considered quite temporary. 
 The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a 
 poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, 
 and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run 
 the country for deer stealing. I think his name 
 was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into 
 oblivion." 
 
 " On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that 
 very man that the literature of his period has expe 
 rienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of 
 English literature. There rise authors now and
 
 OF LITERATURE. 221 
 
 then, who seem proof against the mutability of lan 
 guage, because they have rooted themselves in the 
 unchanging principles of human nature. They are 
 like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the 
 banks of a stream : which by their vast and deep 
 roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and 
 laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
 preserve the soil around them from being swept 
 away by the overflowing current, and hold up many 
 a neighbouring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, 
 to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, 
 whom we behold, defying the encroachments of 
 time, retaining in modern use the language and lite 
 rature of his day, and giving duration to many an 
 indifferent author, merely from having flourished in 
 his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gra 
 dually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form 
 is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, 
 like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the 
 noble plant that upholds them." 
 
 Here the little quarto began to heave his sides 
 and chuckle, until at length he broke out in a ple 
 thoric fit of laughter that had well nigh choked him, 
 by reason of his excessive corpulency. " Mighty 
 well !" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, 
 " mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that 
 the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a 
 vagabond deer stealer ! by a man without learning !
 
 222 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 by a poet, forsooth a poet !" And here he wheezed 
 forth another fit of laughter. 
 
 I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this 
 rudeness, which I ascribed to his having flourished 
 in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, 
 not to give up my point. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of 
 all writers he has the best chance for immortality. 
 Others may write from the head, but he writes 
 from the heart, and the heart will always understand 
 him. He is the faithful pourtrayer of nature, whose 
 features are always the same, and always interesting. 
 Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their 
 pages crowded with common-places, and their 
 thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with 
 the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or 
 brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the 
 choicest language. He illustrates them by every 
 thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. 
 He enriches them by pictures of human life, such 
 as it is passing before him. His writings, there 
 fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the 
 phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are 
 caskets which enclose within a small compass the 
 wealth of the language its family jewels, which are 
 thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The 
 setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require 
 now and then to be renewed, as in the case of
 
 OF LITERATURE. 
 
 Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of 
 the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back 
 
 o 
 
 over the long reach of literary history. What vast 
 valleys of dullness, filled with monkish legends and 
 academical controversies ! What bogs of theolo 
 gical speculations ; what dreary wastes of riieta- 
 physics ! Here and there only do we behold the 
 heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on 
 their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure 
 light of poetical intelligence from age to age."* 
 
 I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums 
 upon the poets of the day, when the sudden open 
 ing of the door caused me to turn my head. It 
 was the verger, who came to inform me that it was 
 time to close the library. I sought to have a part 
 ing word with the quarto, but the worthy little 
 
 * Thorow earth and waters deepe, 
 
 The pen by skill doth passe : 
 And featly nyps the worldcs abuse, 
 
 And shoes us in a glasse, 
 The vertu and the vice 
 
 Of every wight alyve ; 
 The honey comb that bee doth make, 
 
 Is not so sweete in hyve, 
 As are the golden leves 
 
 That drops from poets head : 
 Which doth surmount our common talke 
 
 As farre as dross doth lead. 
 
 Churchyard,
 
 224 THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 
 
 tome was silent; the clasps were closed; and it 
 looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. 
 I have been to the library two or three times since, 
 and endeavoured to draw it into farther conversa 
 tion, but in vain : and whether all this ramb 
 ling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was 
 another of those odd day-dreams to which I am 
 subject, I have never, to this moment, been able 
 to discover.
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Here s a few flowers ; but about midnight more : 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o the night 
 Are strewings fitt st for graves 
 You were as flowers now withered; even so 
 These herb lets shall, which we upon you strow. 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted customs 
 of rural life which still linger in some parts of Eng 
 land, are those of strewing flowers before the fu 
 nerals and planting them at the graves of departed 
 friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some 
 of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are 
 of still higher antiquity, having been observed 
 among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently 
 mentioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, 
 the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, 
 originating long before art had tasked itself to modu 
 late sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. 
 They are now only to be met with in the most dis 
 tant and retired places of the kingdom, where 
 Q2
 
 228 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 fashion and innovation have not been able to 
 throng in, and trample out all the curious and in 
 teresting traces of the olden time. 
 
 In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon 
 the corpse lies, is covered with flowers, a custom 
 alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties 
 of Ophelia : 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow, 
 
 Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
 Which be- wept to the grave did go, 
 
 With true love showers. 
 
 There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite 
 observed in some of the remote villages of the 
 south, at the funeral of a female who has died 
 joung and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers 
 is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest 
 in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards 
 hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of 
 the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made 
 of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of 
 them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are 
 intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, 
 and the crown of glory which she has received in 
 heaven. 
 
 In some parts of the country, also, the dead are 
 carried to the grave with the singing of psalms 
 and hymns : a kind of triumph, " to show," says
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 229 
 
 Bourne, " that they have finished their course with 
 joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am in 
 formed, is observed in some of the northern coun 
 ties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a 
 pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a 
 still evening, in some lonely country scene, the 
 mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from 
 a distance, and to see the train slowly moving 
 along the landscape. 
 
 Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
 Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
 And as we sing thy dirge, we will 
 The Daffodil], 
 And other flowers lay upon 
 The altar of pur love, thy stone. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller 
 to the passing funeral in these, sequestered places, 
 for such spectacles, occurring among the quiet 
 abodes of nature, sink deep into the soul. As the 
 mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, 
 to let it go by; he then follows silently in the rear; 
 sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a 
 few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of 
 respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his 
 journey. 
 
 The rich vein of melancholy which runs through 
 the English character, and gives it some of its 
 Q3
 
 230 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 most touching and ennobling graces, is finely 
 evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the so 
 licitude shown by the common people for an 
 honoured and a peaceful grave. The humblest pea 
 sant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is 
 anxious that some little respect may be paid to his 
 remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the 
 " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives 
 she, and all her care is, that she may die in the 
 spring time, to have store of flowers stucke upon 
 her winding sheet." The poets, too, who always 
 breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert 
 to this fond solicitude about the grave. In " The 
 Maid s Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 there is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing 
 the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted 
 girl : 
 
 When she sees a bank 
 
 Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
 Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
 To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
 Pluck em, and strew her over like a corse. 
 
 The custom of decorating graves was once uni 
 versally prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over 
 them to keep the turf uninjured, and about them 
 were planted evergreens and flowers. " We adorn 
 their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with 
 flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 231 
 
 life of man, which has been compared in Holy 
 Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots 
 being buried in dishonour, rise again in glory." 
 This usage has now become extremely rare in 
 England; but it may still be met with in the 
 church-yards of retired villages, among the Welch 
 mountains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the 
 small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head of the 
 beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by 
 a friend, who was present at the funeral of a young 
 girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants 
 had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as 
 the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. 
 
 He noticed several graves which had been deco 
 rated in the same manner. As the flowers had 
 been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, 
 they had soon withered, and might be seen in va 
 rious states of decay ; some drooping, others quite 
 perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted 
 by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which 
 on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and 
 overshadowed the tomb stones. 
 
 There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in 
 the arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had 
 something in it truly poetical. The rose was some 
 times blended with the lily, to form a general 
 emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," 
 says Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, 
 Q4
 
 232 BUBAL FUNERALS. 
 
 and accompanied with the lily, are natural hierogly 
 phics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and tran 
 sitory life, which, making so fair a shew for a time, 
 is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The 
 nature and colour of the flowers, and of the ribands 
 with which they were tied, had often a particular 
 reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, 
 or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. 
 In an old poem, entitled " Corydon s Doleful 
 Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends 
 to use : 
 
 A garland shall be framed 
 
 By Art and Nature s skill, 
 Of sundry-coloured flowers, 
 
 In token of good-will. 
 
 And sundry-coloured ribands 
 
 On it I will bestow ; 
 But chiefly blacke and yellowe 
 
 With her to grave shall go. 
 
 I ll deck her tomb with flowers, 
 
 The rarest ever seen ; 
 And with my tears as showers, 
 I ll keep them fresh and green. 
 
 The white rose, we are told, was planted at the 
 grave of a virgin; her chaplet was tied with white 
 ribands, in token of her spotless innocence; though 
 sometimes black ribands w r ere intermingled, to be 
 speak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 233 
 
 occasionally used in remembrance of such as had 
 been remarkable for benevolence; but roses in 
 general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. 
 Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether 
 extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county 
 of Surry, "where the maidens yearly planted and 
 decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with 
 rose-bushes." And Camden, likewise, remarks in 
 his Britannia: "Here is also a certain custom, 
 observed time out of mind, of planting rose trees 
 upon the graves, especially by the young men and 
 maids who have lost their loves; so that this church 
 yard is now full of them." 
 
 \\hen the deceased had been unhappy in their 
 loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were 
 used, such as the yew and cypress; and if flowers 
 were strewn they were of the most melancholy co 
 lours. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. 
 (published in 1651), is the following stanza: 
 
 Yet strew 
 
 Upon my dismall grave 
 Such offerings as you have, 
 
 Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe; 
 For kinder flowers can take no birth 
 Or growtli from such unhappy earth. 
 
 In " The Maid s Tragedy," a pathetic little air is 
 introduced, illustrative of this mode of decorating
 
 234 RURAL FUNERALS, 
 
 the funerals of females who had been disappointed 
 in love : 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the disniall yew, 
 Maidens willow branches wear, 
 
 Say I died true. 
 
 My love was false, but I was firm, 
 
 From my hour of birth, 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to 
 refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of 
 it in the purity of sentiment and the unaffected ele 
 gance of thought, which pervaded the whole of 
 these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial 
 precaution, that none but sweet-scented evergreens 
 and flowers should be employed. The intention 
 seems to have been to soften the horrors of the 
 tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the 
 iisgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate 
 the memory of the deceased with the most delicate 
 and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal 
 process going on in the grave, ere dust can return 
 to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks 
 from contemplating; and we seek still to think of 
 the form we have loved, with those refined associa 
 tions which it awakened when bloomin before 11
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 235 
 
 in youth and beauty. " Lay her i the earth," says 
 Laertes of his virgin sister, 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 May violets spring ! 
 
 Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jeptha," pours 
 forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, 
 which in a manner embalms the dead in the recol 
 lections of the living. 
 
 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 
 
 And make this place all Paradise : 
 
 May sweets grow v and smoke from hence, 
 
 Fat frankincense. 
 
 Let balme and cassia send their scent 
 From out thy maiden monument. 
 * * 
 
 May all shie maids at wonted hours 
 
 Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ; 
 
 May virgins, when they come to mourn, 
 
 Male incense burn 
 .Upon thine altar! then return 
 And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 
 
 I might crowd my pages with extracts from the 
 older British poets, who wrote when these rites 
 were more prevalent, and delighted frequently to 
 allude to them ; but I have already quoted more than 
 is necessary. I cannot however refrain from giving 
 a passage from Shakspeare, even though it should 
 appear trite; which illustrates the emblematical
 
 236 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes; and 
 at the same time possesses that magic of language 
 and appositeness of imagery for which he stands 
 pre-eminent. 
 
 With fairest flowers, 
 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I ll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shall not lack 
 The flower that s like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
 The azured harehell like thy veins; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
 Outsweetened not thy breath. 
 
 There is certainly something more affecting in 
 these prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, 
 than in the most costly monuments of art; the hand 
 strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the 
 tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the 
 osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the 
 slow labour of the chisel, and is chilled among the 
 cold conceits of sculptured marble. 
 
 It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly 
 elegant an d touching has disappeared from general 
 use, and exists only in the most remote and insigni 
 ficant villages. But it seems as if poetical custom 
 always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In 
 proportion as people grow polite they cease to be 
 poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have learnt 
 to check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying 
 emotions, and to supply its most affecting and pic-
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 237 
 
 turesque usages, by studied form and pompous 
 ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and 
 frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made 
 up of show and gloomy parade: mourning car 
 riages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and 
 hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. 
 " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, 
 " and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the 
 neighbourhood, and when the dales are finished, 
 they shall be, and they shall be remembered no 
 more." The associate in the gay and crowded city 
 is soon forgotten; the hurrying succession of new 
 intimates and new pleasures effaces him from our 
 minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he 
 moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in 
 the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke 
 of death makes a wider space in the village circle, 
 and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of 
 rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every 
 ear; it steals with its pervading melancholy over 
 every hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 
 
 The fixed and unchanging features of the country 
 also, perpetuate the memory of the friend with 
 whom we once enjoyed them ; who was the com 
 panion of our most retired walks, and gave anima 
 tion to every lonely scene. His idea is associated 
 with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice in the 
 echo which he once delighted to awaken; his spirit
 
 238 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 haunts every grove which he once frequented ; we 
 think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst 
 the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freslmess 
 of joyous morning, we remember his beaming 
 smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober even 
 ing returns with its gathering shadows and subduing 
 quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of 
 gentle talk and sweet souled melancholy. 
 
 Each lonely place shall him restore, 
 
 For him the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
 
 And mourn d, till pity s self be dead. 
 
 Another cause that perpetuates the memory of 
 the deceased in the country, is, that the grave is 
 more immediately in sight of the survivors. They 
 pass it on their way to prayer ; it meets their eyes 
 when their hearts are softened by the exercises of 
 devotion ; they linger about it on the sabbath, when 
 the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and 
 most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures 
 and present loves, and to sit down among the 
 solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales 
 the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their 
 deceased friends for several Sundays after the in 
 terment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and 
 planting flowers is still practised, it is always re 
 newed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals,
 
 ftURAL FUNERALS. 239 
 
 when the season brings the companion of former 
 festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably 
 performed by the nearest relatives and friends ; no 
 menials nor hirelings are employed ; and if a neigh 
 bour yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult 
 to offer compensation. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, 
 because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the 
 holiest offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of 
 true affection. It is there that the divine passion 
 of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive 
 impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter 
 must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the 
 presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in 
 the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere 
 inclinations of sense languish and decline with the 
 charms which excited them, and turn with shud 
 dering disgust from the dismal precincts of the 
 tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection 
 rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns 
 like a holy flame to illumine and sanctify the heart 
 of the survivor. 
 
 The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from 
 which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound 
 we seek to heal every other affliction to forget ; 
 but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open 
 this affliction we cherish and brood over in soli 
 tude. Where is the mother who would willingly
 
 240 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 forget the infant that perished like a blossom from 
 her arms, though every recollection is a pang r 
 Where is the child that would willingly forget the 
 most tender of parents, though to remember be but 
 to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would 
 forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, 
 even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of 
 her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it 
 were, crushed in the closing of its portal; would 
 accept of consolation that must be bought by for- 
 getfulness ? No, the love which survives the tomb 
 is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it 
 has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when 
 the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the 
 gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden an 
 guish and the convulsive agony over the present 
 ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away 
 into pensive meditation on all that it was in the 
 days of its loveliness who would root out such a 
 sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes 
 throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of 
 gayety ; or spread a deeper sadness over the hour 
 of gloom ; yet who would exchange it, even for the 
 song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry I No, 
 there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. 
 There is a remembrance of the dead to which we 
 turn even from the charms of the living. Oh the 
 grave ! the grave ! It buries every error covers
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 241 
 
 every defect extinguishes every resentment! From 
 its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets 
 and tender recollections. Who can look down 
 upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a 
 compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred 
 with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering 
 before him ! 
 
 But the grave of those we loved what a place 
 for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long 
 review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, 
 and the thousand endearments lavished upon us 
 almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of inti 
 macy there it is that we dwell upon the tender 
 ness; the solejjm, awful tenderness of the parting 
 scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs 
 its noiseless attendance its mute, watchful as 
 siduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! 
 The feeble, fluttering, thrilling oh ! how thrilling ! 
 pressure of the hand. The last fond look of 
 the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the 
 threshold of existence ! The faint, faltering accents, 
 struggling in death to give one more assurance of 
 affection i 
 
 Aye ! go to the grave of buried love, and medi 
 tate ! There settle the account with thy conscience 
 for every past benefit unrequited every past en 
 dearment unregarded, of that departed being, who 
 
 VOL. T. R
 
 242 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 can never never never return to be soothed by 
 thy contrition ! 
 
 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow 
 to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an 
 affectionate parent if thou art a husband, and hast 
 ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole 
 happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy 
 kindness or thy truth if thou art a friend, and hast 
 ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the 
 spirit that generously confided in thee if thou art 
 a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to 
 that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath 
 thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, 
 every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will 
 come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock 
 ing dolefully at thy soul then be sure that thou 
 wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, 
 and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavail 
 ing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard 
 and unavailing. 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew 
 the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy 
 broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet 
 futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the 
 bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the 
 dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec 
 tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
 
 ( 243 ) 
 
 IN writing the preceding article, it was not in 
 tended to give a full detail of the funeral customs 
 of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a 
 few hints and quotations illustrative of particular 
 rites ; to be appended, by way of note, to another 
 paper, which has been withheld. The article 
 swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is 
 mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a 
 notice of these usages, after they have been amply 
 and learnedly investigated in other works. 
 
 I must observe also, that I am well aware that 
 this custom of adorning graves with flowers, pre 
 vails in other countries besides England. Indeed, 
 in some it is much more general, and is observed 
 even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt 
 to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into af 
 fectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hun 
 gary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses 
 formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
 bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves 
 generally are covered with the gayest flowers of the 
 season. He gives a casual picture of filial piety, 
 which I cannot but describe ; for I trust it is as 
 useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable 
 virtues of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says 
 he, " I followed the celebrated IfBand to the grave. 
 Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much 
 n 2
 
 ( 244 ) 
 
 real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my 
 attention was attracted by a young woman who 
 stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with 
 turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of 
 the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; 
 and the figure of this affectionate daughter pre 
 sented a monument more striking than the most 
 costly work of art." 
 
 I will barely add an instance of sepulchral deco 
 ration that I once met with among the mountains 
 of Switzerland. It was at the village of Gersau, 
 which stands on the borders of the Lake of Lu 
 cerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the 
 capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the 
 Alps and the lake, and accessible on the land side 
 only by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic 
 did not exceed six hundred fighting men; and a 
 few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were 
 from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its 
 territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated 
 from the rest of the world, and retained the golden 
 simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, 
 with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of 
 the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. 
 On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, 
 but evidently attempts at likenesses of the de 
 ceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of 
 flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occa-
 
 ( 245 ) 
 
 sionally renewed. I paused with interest at this 
 scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical 
 description, for these were the beautiful but unaf 
 fected offerings of the heart which poets are fain 
 to record. In a gayer and more populous place, 
 I should have suspected them to have been sug 
 gested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; 
 but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; 
 there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; 
 and I question whether any peasant of the place 
 dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for 
 the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one 
 of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and 
 that he was practically a poet.
 
 THE 
 
 INN KITCHEN. 
 
 R4
 
 THE 
 
 INN KITCHEN. 
 
 Shall I not take mtnc ease in mine inn ? 
 
 FALSTAFF. 
 
 DURING a journey that I once made through the 
 Netherlands, I had arrived one evening at the 
 Pomme d Or, the principal inn of a small Flemish 
 village. It was after the hour of the table d hote, 
 so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper 
 from the reliques of its ampler board. The wea 
 ther was chilly; I was seated alone in one end of 
 a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being 
 over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull 
 evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. 
 I summoned mine host, and requested something to 
 read; he brought me the whole literary stock of
 
 250 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 his household, a Dutch family-bible, an almanack 
 in the same language, and a number of old Paris 
 newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the 
 latter, reading old news and stale criticisms, my 
 ear was now and then struck with bursts of laugh 
 ter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. 
 Every one that has travelled on the continent 
 must know how favourite a resort the kitchen of a 
 country inn is to the middle and inferior order of 
 travellers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of 
 weather, when a fire becomes agreeable toward 
 evening. I threw aside the newspaper, and ex 
 plored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at 
 the group that appeared to be so merry. It was 
 composed partly of travellers who had arrived some 
 hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual 
 attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were 
 seated round a great burnished stove, that might 
 have been mistaken for an altar, at which they 
 were worshipping. It was covered with various 
 kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among 
 which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. 
 A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the 
 group, bringing out many odd features in strong 
 relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spa 
 cious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote cor 
 ners ; except where they settled in mellow radiance 
 on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were
 
 THE INN KITCHEN. 251 
 
 reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that 
 gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping 
 Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her 
 ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended 
 to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 
 
 Many of the company were furnished with pipes, 
 and most of them with some kind of evening pota 
 tion. I found their mirth was occasioned by anec 
 dotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a 
 dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of 
 his love-adventures ; at the end of each of which 
 there was one of those bursts of honest unceremo 
 nious laughter, in which a man indulges in that 
 temple of true liberty, an inn. 
 
 As I had no better mode of getting through a 
 tedious blustering evening, I took my seat near 
 the stove, and listened to a variety of travellers 
 tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. 
 All of them, ho\vever, have faded from my trea 
 cherous memory except one, which Iwill endeavour 
 to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest 
 from the manner in which it was told, and the pecu 
 liar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 
 corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran 
 traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished green 
 travelling jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, 
 and a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips 
 to the ankles. He was of a full rubicund counte-
 
 252 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 nance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a 
 pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was light, and 
 curled from under an old green velvet travelling 
 cap stuck on one side of his head. He was inter 
 rupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or 
 the remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and 
 then to replenish his pipe ; at which times he had 
 generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the 
 buxom kitchen maid. 
 
 I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow 
 lolling in a huge arm chair, one arm a-kimbo, the 
 other holding a curiously twisted tobacco pipe, 
 formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated with 
 silver chain and silken tassel his head cocked on 
 one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasion 
 ally, as he related the following story.
 
 THE 
 
 SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 A TRAVELLER S TALE.* 
 
 He that supper for is dight, 
 
 He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 
 
 Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
 
 This night Gray-steel lias made his bed ! 
 
 SIR EC.ER, SIR GRAHAME, AND SIR GRAY-STEEL. 
 
 ON the summit of one of the heights of the Oden- 
 \vald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, 
 that lies not far from the confluence of the Maine 
 and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years 
 since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. 
 It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried 
 among beech trees and dark firs; above which, 
 
 * The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will 
 perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old 
 Swiss by a little French anecdote, of a circumstance said to have 
 taken place at Paris.
 
 254 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 however, its old watch-tower may still be seen 
 struggling, like the former possessor I have men 
 tioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon 
 the neighbouring country. 
 
 The Baron was a dry branch of the great family 
 of Katzenellenbogen,* and inherited the reliques 
 of the property, and all the pride of his ancestors. 
 Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors 
 had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
 Baron still endeavoured to keep up some show 
 of former state. The times were peaceable, and 
 the German nobles, in general, had abandoned 
 their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles 
 nests among the mountains, and had built more 
 convenient residences in the valleys: still the Baron 
 remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, 
 cherishing with hereditary inveteracy, all the old 
 family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some 
 of his nearest neighbours, on account of disputes 
 that had happened between their great great grand 
 fathers. 
 
 The Baron had but one child, a daughter ; but 
 nature, when she grants but one child, always 
 compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was 
 
 * i. e. CATS-ELBOW. Tlie name of a family of those parts very 
 powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given 
 in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a 
 fine arm.
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 255 
 
 with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, 
 gossips, and country cousins, assured her father 
 that she had not her equal for beauty in all Ger 
 many; and %vho should know better than they? She 
 had, moreover, been brought up with great care 
 under the superintendance of two maiden aunts, 
 who had spent some years of their early life at one 
 of the little German courts, and were skilled in all 
 the branches of knowledge necessary to the educa 
 tion of a fine lady. Under their instructions, she 
 became a miracle of accomplishments. By the 
 time she was eighteen, she could embroider to 
 admiration, and had worked whole histories of the 
 saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression 
 in their countenances, that they looked like so 
 many souls in purgatory. She could read without 
 great difficulty, and had spelled her way through 
 several church legends, and almost all the chivalric 
 wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made 
 considerable proficiency in writing ; could sign her 
 own name without missing a letter, and so legibly 
 that her aunts could read it without spectacles. 
 She excelled in making little elegant good-for- 
 nothing lady-like nick-nacks of all kinds ; was 
 versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day ; 
 played a number of airs on the harp and guitar; 
 and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnie- 
 Heders bv heart.
 
 256 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and co 
 quettes in their younger days, were admirably cal 
 culated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors 
 of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no 
 duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, 
 as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suf 
 fered out of their sight; never went beyond the 
 domains of the castle, unless well attended, or 
 rather well watched ; had continual lectures read 
 to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; 
 and, as to the men pah ! she was taught to hold 
 them at such distance, and in such absolute dis 
 trust, that, unless properly authorized, she would 
 not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cava 
 lier in the world no, not if he were even dying at 
 her feet. 
 
 The good effects of this system were wonder 
 fully apparent. The young lady was a pattern 
 of docility and correctness. While others were 
 wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, 
 and liable to be plucked ami thrown aside by every 
 hand ; she was coyly blooming into fresh and 
 lovely womanhood under the protection of those im 
 maculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth 
 among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
 her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that 
 though all the other young ladies in the world might 
 go astray, yet, thank heaven, nothing of the kind 
 could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen.
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 25? 
 
 But, however scantily the Baron Von Land- 
 short might be provided with children, his house 
 hold was by no means a small one ; for providence 
 had enriched him with abundance of poor rela 
 tions. They, one and all, possessed the affec 
 tionate disposition common to humble relatives ; 
 were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and took 
 every possible occasion to come in swarms and 
 enliven the castle. All family festivals were com 
 memorated by these good people at the Baron s 
 expense ; and when they were filled with good 
 cheer, they would declare that there was nothing 
 on earth so delightful as these family meetings, 
 these jubilees of the heart. 
 
 The Baron, though a small man, had a large 
 soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the con 
 sciousness of being the greatest man in the little 
 world about him. He loved to tell long stories 
 about the stark old warriors whose portraits looked 
 grimly down from the walls around, and he found 
 no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. 
 He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm 
 believer in all those supernatural tales with which 
 every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. 
 The faith of his guests exceeded even his own : 
 they listened to every tale of wonder with open 
 eyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, 
 even though repeated for the hundredth time. 
 
 VOL. i. s
 
 258 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle 
 of his table, the absolute monarch of his little 
 territory, and happy above all things, in the per 
 suasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 
 
 At the time of which my story treats, there was 
 a great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of 
 the utmost importance. It was to receive the 
 destined bridegroom of the Baron s daughter. A 
 negociation had been carried on between the 
 father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite 
 the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their 
 children. The preliminaries had been conducted 
 with proper punctilio. The young people were 
 betrothed without seeing each other ; and the time 
 was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The 
 young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled 
 from the army for the purpose, and was actually 
 on his way to the Baron s to receive his bride. 
 Missives had even been received from him, from 
 Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, 
 mentioning the day and hour when he might be 
 expected to arrive. 
 
 The castle was in a tumult of preparation to 
 give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had 
 been decked out with uncommon care. The two 
 aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled 
 the whole morning about every article of her dress. 
 The young lady had taken advantage of their con-
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 259 
 
 test to follow the bent of her own taste ; and for 
 tunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely 
 as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the 
 flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her 
 charms. 
 
 The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, 
 the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and 
 then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult 
 that was going on in her little heart. The aunts 
 were continually hovering around her ; for maiden 
 aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of 
 this nature. They were giving her a world of 
 staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, 
 and in what manner to receive the expected lover. 
 
 The Baron was no less busied in preparations. 
 He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he 
 was naturally a fuming bustling little man, and 
 could not remain passive when all the world was 
 in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of 
 the castle, with an air of infinite anxiety ; he con 
 tinually called the servants from their work to ex 
 hort them to be diligent ; and buzzed about every 
 hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate 
 as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer s day. 
 
 In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; 
 the forests had rung w ith the clamour of the hunts 
 men ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; 
 the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rftein-
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 wein and Ferm-wein ; and even the great Heidel 
 berg tun had been laid under contribution. Every 
 thing was ready to receive the distinguished guest 
 with Sous rind Brans in the true spirit of German 
 hospitality but the guest delayed to make his 
 appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun 
 that had poured his downward rays upon the rich 
 forests of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along 
 the summits of the mountains. The Baron 
 mounted the highest tower, and strained his eyes 
 in hopes of catching a distant sight of the Count 
 and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld 
 them ; the sound of horns came floating from the 
 valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A 
 number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly 
 advancing along the road ; but when they had 
 nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they sud 
 denly struck off in a different direction. The last 
 ray of sunshine departed the bats began to flit 
 by in the twilight the road grew dimmer and 
 dimmer to the view ; and nothing appeared stir 
 ring in it, but now and then a peasant lagging 
 homeward from his labour. 
 
 While the old castle of Landshort was in this 
 state of perplexity, a very interesting scene was 
 transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. 
 
 The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly 
 .pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 26l 
 
 which a man travels toward matrimony when his 
 friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty 
 of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting 
 for him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his 
 journey. He had encountered, at Wurtzburg, a 
 youthful companion in arms, with whom he had 
 seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von 
 Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and 
 worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was now 
 returning from the army. His father s castle was 
 not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, 
 although an hereditary feud rendered the families 
 hostile, and strangers to each other. 
 
 In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the 
 young friends related all their past adventures and 
 fortunes, and the Count gave the whole history of 
 his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he 
 had never seen, but of whose charms he had re 
 ceived the most enrapturing descriptions. 
 
 As the route of the friends lay in the same direc 
 tion, they agreed to perform the rest of their jour 
 ney together ; and that they might do it the more 
 leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, 
 the Count having given directions for his retinue to 
 follow and overtake him. 
 
 They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections 
 of their military scenes and adventures ; but the 
 Count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, 
 s 5
 
 262 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 about the reputed charms of his bride, and the feli 
 city that awaited him. 
 
 In this way they had entered among the moun 
 tains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of 
 its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is 
 well known that the forests of Germany have al 
 ways been as much infested by robbers as its castles 
 by spectres ; and, at this time, the former were 
 particularly numerous, from the hordes of dis 
 banded soldiers wandering about the country. It 
 will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the 
 cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these strag 
 glers, in the depth of the forest. They defended 
 themselves with bravery, but were nearly over 
 powered, when the Count s retinue arrived to their 
 assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but 
 not until the Count had received a mortal wound. 
 He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the 
 city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a 
 neighbouring convent, who was famous for his skill 
 in administering to both soul and body ; but half 
 of his skill was superfluous ; the moments of the 
 unfortunate Count were numbered. 
 
 With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
 repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and ex 
 plain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appoint 
 ment with his bride. Though not the most ardent 
 of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 263 
 
 men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that this 
 mission should be speedily and courteously exe 
 cuted. " Unless this is done," said he, " I shall 
 not sleep quietly in my grave !" He repeated these 
 last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at 
 a moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. 
 Starkenfaust endeavoured to soothe him to calm 
 ness, promised faithfully to execute his wish, and 
 gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying 
 man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed 
 into delirium raved about his bride his engage 
 ment his plighted word ; ordered his horse, that 
 he might ride to the castle of Landshort ; and ex 
 pired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 
 
 Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier s 
 tear, on the untimely fate of his comrade ; and then 
 pondered on the awkward mission he had under 
 taken. His heart was heavy, and his head per 
 plexed ; for he was to present himself an unbidden 
 guest among hostile people, and to damp their fes 
 tivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there 
 were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom 
 to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, 
 so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was 
 a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a 
 dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character 
 that made him fond of all singular adventure. 
 
 Previous to his departure he made all due ar- 
 s 4
 
 264 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 rangenients with the holy fraternity of the convent 
 for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who was 
 to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near 
 some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning 
 retinue of the Count took charge of his remains. 
 
 It is now high time that we should return to the 
 ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were im 
 patient for their guest, and still more for their din 
 ner ; and to the worthy little Baron, whom we left 
 airing himself on the watch-tower. 
 
 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The 
 Baron descended from the tower in despair. The 
 banquet, which had been delayed from hour to 
 hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats 
 were already overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and 
 the whole household had the look of a garrison 
 that had been reduced by famine. The Baron 
 was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast 
 without the presence of the guest. All were seated 
 at table, and just on the point of commencing, 
 when the sound of a horn from without the gate 
 gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Ano 
 ther long blast filled the old courts of the castle 
 with its echoes, and was answered by the warder 
 from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his 
 future son-in-law. 
 
 The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
 stranger was before the gate. He was a tall gallant
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 265 
 
 cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His counte 
 nance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic 
 eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The Baron 
 was a little mortified that he should have come in 
 this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a mo 
 ment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider 
 it a want of proper respect for the important occa 
 sion, and the important family with which he was 
 to be connected. He, however, pacified himself 
 with the conclusion, that it must have been youth 
 ful impatience which had induced him thus to spur 
 on sooner than his attendants. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in 
 upon you thus unseasonably " 
 
 Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of 
 compliments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, 
 he prided himself upon his courtesy and his elo 
 quence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, 
 to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he 
 bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By 
 the time the Baron had come to a pause, they had 
 reached the inner court of the castle ; and the 
 stranger was again about to speak, when he was 
 once more interrupted by the appearance of the 
 female part of the family, leading forth the shrink 
 ing and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a 
 moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his 
 whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested
 
 266 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts 
 whispered something in her ear; she made an 
 effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly 
 raised ; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger ; 
 and was cast again to the ground. The words 
 died away; but there was a sweet smile playing 
 about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, 
 that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. 
 It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of 
 eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matri 
 mony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 
 
 The late hour at which the guest had arrived, 
 left no time for parley. The Baron was peremp 
 tory, and deferred all particular conversation until 
 the morning, and led the way to the untasted ban 
 quet. 
 
 It was served up in the great hall of the castle. 
 Around the walls hung the hard-favoured portraits 
 of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, 
 and the trophies which they had gained in the field 
 and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered 
 jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled 
 with the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the 
 wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly 
 among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair 
 of antlers branched accidentally over the head of 
 the youthful bridegroom. 
 
 The cavalier took but little notice of the com-
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 26? 
 
 pany, or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted 
 the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration 
 of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that 
 could not be overheard for the language of love 
 is never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull 
 that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? 
 There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his 
 manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect 
 upon the young lady. Her colour came and went 
 as she listened with deep attention. Now and 
 then she made some blushing reply, and when his 
 eye was turned away, she would steal a side-long 
 glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a 
 gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident 
 that the young couple were completely enamoured. 
 The aunts, who were deeply versed in the myste 
 ries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in 
 love with each other at first sight. 
 
 The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, 
 for the guests were all blessed with those keen ap 
 petites that attend upon light purses and mountain 
 air. The Baron told his best and longest stories, 
 and never had he told them so well, or with such 
 great effect. If there was any thing marvellous, 
 his auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if any 
 thing facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in 
 the right place. The Baron, it is true, like most 
 great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but
 
 268 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 a dull one ; it was always enforced, however, by a 
 bumper of excellent Hoch-heimer; and even a 
 dull joke, at one s own table, served up with jolly 
 old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were 
 said by poorer and keener wits, that would not 
 bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; many 
 sly speeches whispered in ladies ears, that almost 
 convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a 
 song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and 
 broad-faced cousin of the Baron, that absolutely 
 made the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 
 
 Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest main 
 tained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. 
 His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejec 
 tion as the evening advanced ; and, strange as it 
 may appear, even the Baron s jokes seemed only 
 to render him the more melancholy. At times he 
 was lost in thought, and at times there was a per 
 turbed and restless wandering of the eye that be 
 spoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations 
 with the bride became more and more earnest and 
 mysterious. Louring clouds began to steal over 
 the fair serenity of her brow, and tremours to run 
 through her tender frame. 
 
 All this could not escape the notice of the com 
 pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccount 
 able gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits were 
 infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged,
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 269 
 
 accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the 
 head. The song and the laugh grew less and less 
 frequent ; there were dreary pauses in the conversa 
 tion, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, 
 and supernatural legends. One dismal story pro 
 duced another still more dismal, and the Baron 
 nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics 
 with the history of the goblin horseman that car 
 ried away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful, but true 
 story, which has since been put into excellent verse, 
 and is read and believed by all the world. 
 
 The bridegroom listened to this tale with pro 
 found attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed 
 on the Baron, and, as the story drew to a close, 
 began gradually to rise from his seat, growing 
 taller and taller, until, in the Baron s entranced eye, 
 he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The mo 
 ment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, 
 and took a solemn farewell of the company. They 
 were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly 
 thunderstruck. 
 
 " What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? 
 why, every thing was prepared for his reception : 
 a chamber was ready for him if he wished to 
 retire." 
 
 The stranger shook his head mournfully and 
 mysteriously ; " I must lay my head in a different 
 chamber to-night !"
 
 270 THE SPECTRE^ BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 There was something in this reply, and the tone 
 in which it was uttered, that made the Baron s 
 heart misgive him ; but he rallied his forces and 
 repeated his hospitable entreaties. The stranger 
 shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
 offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company, 
 stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts 
 were absolutely petrified the bride hung her 
 head, and a tear stole to her eye. 
 
 The Baron followed the stranger to the great 
 court of the castle, where the black charger stood 
 pawing the earth, and snorting with impatience. 
 When they had reached the portal, whose deep 
 archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger 
 paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow tone 
 of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more 
 sepulchral. " Now that we are alone," said he, 
 " I will impart to you the reason of my going. I 
 have a solemn, an indispensable engagement " 
 
 " Why," said the Baron, " cannot you send some 
 one in your place ?" 
 
 " It admits of no substitute I must attend it in 
 person I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " 
 
 " Aye," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, " but 
 not until to-morrow to-morrow you shall take 
 your bride there." 
 
 "No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold 
 solemnity, " my engagement is with no bride
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 2?I 
 
 the worms ! the worms expect me ! I am a dead 
 man I have been slain by robbers my body lies 
 at Wurtzburg at midnight I am to be buried 
 the grave is waiting for me I must keep my ap 
 pointment !" 
 
 He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the 
 drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse s hoofs 
 were lost in the whistling of the night blast. 
 
 The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost 
 consternation, and related what had passed. Two 
 ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the idea 
 of having banquetted with a spectre. It was the 
 opinion of some, that this might be the wild hunts 
 man famous in German legend. Some talked of 
 mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other 
 supernatural beings, with which the good people 
 of Germany have been so grievously harassed 
 since time immemorial. One of the poor relations 
 ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive 
 evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very 
 gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with 
 so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew 
 on him the indignation of the whole company, and 
 especially of the Baron, who looked upon him as 
 little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to 
 abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come 
 into the faith of the true believers. 
 
 But, whatever may have been the doubts enter-
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 tained, they were completely put to an end by the 
 arrival, next day, of regular missives, confirming 
 the intelligence of the young Count s murder, and 
 his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 
 
 The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. 
 The Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The 
 guests who had come to rejoice with him, could 
 not think of abandoning him in his distress. They 
 wandered about the courts, or collected in groupcs 
 in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging 
 their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ; 
 and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and 
 drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping 
 up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed 
 bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a hus 
 band before she had even embraced him and such 
 a husband ! if the very spectre could be so gracious 
 and noble, what must have been the living man ? 
 She filled the house with lamentations. 
 
 On the night of the second day of her widow 
 hood she had retired to her chamber, accompanied 
 by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with 
 her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of 
 ghost stories in all Germany, had just been re 
 counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep 
 in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, 
 and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay 
 pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon,
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 273 
 
 as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree 
 before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled 
 midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up 
 from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, 
 and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure 
 stood among the shadows of the trees. As it 
 raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the 
 countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the 
 Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that mo 
 ment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had 
 been awakened by the music, and had followed her 
 silently to the window, fell into her arms. When 
 she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 
 
 Of the two females, the aunt now required the 
 most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself 
 with terror. As to the young lady, there was 
 something, even in the spectre of her lover, that 
 seemed endearing. There was still the semblance 
 of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man 
 is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of 
 a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to 
 be had, even that is consoling. The aunt de 
 clared she would never sleep in that chamber again; 
 the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as 
 strongly that she would sleep in no other in the 
 castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep 
 in it alone ; but she drew a promise from her aunt 
 not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left 
 her on earth that of inhabiting the chamber over 
 which the guardian shade of her lover kept its 
 nightly vigils. 
 
 How long the good old lady would have ob 
 served this promise is uncertain, for she dearly 
 loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a tri 
 umph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it 
 is, however, still quoted in the neighbourhood, as 
 a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she 
 kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was 
 suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by in 
 telligence brought to the breakfast table one morn 
 ing that the young lady was not to be found. Her 
 room was empty the bed had not been slept in 
 the window was open, and the bird had flown ! 
 
 The astonishment and concern with which the 
 intelligence was received, can only be imagined by 
 those who have witnessed the agitation which the 
 mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. 
 Even the poor relations paused for a moment from 
 the indefatigable labours of the trencher; when 
 the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, 
 wrung her hands, and shrieked out, " the goblin ! 
 the goblin ! she s carried away by the goblin !" 
 
 In a few words she related the fearful scene of 
 the garden, and concluded that the spectre must 
 have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 2?5 
 
 corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clat 
 tering of a horse s hoofs down the mountain about 
 midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre 
 on his black charger, bearing her away to the 
 tomb. All present were struck with the direful 
 probability ; for events of the kind are extremely 
 common in Germany, as many well authenticated 
 histories bear witness. 
 
 What a lamentable situation was that of the poor 
 Baron ! What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond 
 father, and a member of the great family of Katze- 
 nellenbogen ! His only daughter had either been rapt 
 away to the grave, or he was to have some wood- 
 demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop 
 of goblin grand-children. As usual, he was com 
 pletely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. 
 The men were ordered to take horse, and scour 
 every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. 
 The Baron himself had just drawn on his jack 
 boots, girded on his sword, and was about to 
 mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, 
 when he was brought to a pause by a new appari 
 tion. A lady was seen approaching the castle, 
 mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on 
 horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang 
 from her horse, and falling at the Baron s feet, 
 embraced his kuees. It was his lost daughter, and 
 her companion the Spectre Bridegroom ! The 
 T 2
 
 276 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 Baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, 
 then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evi 
 dence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonder 
 fully improved in his appearance, since his visit to 
 the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and 
 set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was 
 no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte 
 nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy 
 rioted in his large dark eye. 
 
 The mystery was soon cleared up. The cava 
 lier, (for in truth, as you must have known all the 
 while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir 
 Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his ad 
 venture with the young Count. He told how he 
 had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwel 
 come tidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron 
 had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his 
 tale. How the sight of the bride had completely 
 captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near 
 her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. 
 How he had been sorely perplexed in what way 
 to make a decent retreat, until the Baron s goblin 
 stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, 
 fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had 
 repeated his visits by stealth had haunted the 
 garden beneath the young lady s window had 
 wooed had won had borne away in triumph 
 and, in a word, had wedded the fair.
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 277 
 
 Under any other circumstances, the Baron would 
 have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of pa 
 ternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family 
 feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had lamented 
 her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, 
 though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, 
 thank heaven, he was not a goblin. There was 
 something, it must be acknowledged, that did not 
 exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in 
 the joke the knight had passed upon him of his 
 being a dead man ; but several old friends present 
 who had served in the wars, assured him that every 
 stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cava 
 lier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately 
 served as a trooper. 
 
 Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The 
 Baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. 
 The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor 
 relations overwhelmed this new member of the 
 family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so 
 generous and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were 
 somewhat scandalized that their system of strict 
 seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so 
 badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their 
 negligence in not having the windows grated. One 
 of them was particularly mortified at having her 
 marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre 
 
 T3
 
 278 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; 
 but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having 
 found him substantial flesh and blood and so the 
 story ends.
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 x4
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 \Vheu I behold, with deepe astonishment, 
 To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
 Living in brasse or stoney monyment, 
 The princes and the worthies of all sorte: 
 Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
 Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
 And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
 Naked of pompe or earthly domination ? 
 And how a play-game of a painted stone 
 Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
 Whome all the world which late they stood upon, 
 Could not content nor quench their appetites. 
 
 Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
 
 And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 
 
 CHRISTOLERO S EPIGRAMS, BY T. B. 1598. 
 
 ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days, 
 in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of 
 morning and evening almost mingle together, and 
 throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I 
 passed several hours in rambling about West 
 minster Abbey. There was something congenial 
 to the season in the mournful magnificence of the 
 old pile ; and as I passed its threshold, it seemed 
 like stepping back into the regions of antiquity,
 
 282 \YESTM1NSTER ABBEY. 
 
 and losing myself among the shades of former 
 ages. 
 
 I entered from the inner court of Westminster 
 School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that 
 had an almost subterranean look, being dimly 
 lighted in one part by circular perforations in the 
 massy walls. Through this dark avenue I had a 
 distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an 
 old verger, in his black gown, moving along their 
 shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from 
 one of the neighbouring tombs. The approach to 
 the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains 
 prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. 
 The cloisters still retain something of the quiet 
 and seclusion of former days. The grey walls are 
 discoloured by damps, and crumbling with age ; a 
 coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscrip 
 tions of the mural monuments, and obscured the 
 death s heads, and other funereal emblems. The 
 sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
 tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned 
 the key-stones have lost their leafy beauty; every 
 thing bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of 
 time, which yet has something touching and pleas 
 ing in its very decay. 
 
 The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal 
 ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon 
 a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 283 
 
 up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of 
 dusty splendour. From between the arcades the 
 eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing 
 cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the 
 abbey towering into the azure heaven. 
 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contem 
 plating this mingled picture of glory and decay, 
 and sometimes endeavouring to decipher the in 
 scriptions on the tombstones, which formed the 
 pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted 
 to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly 
 worn away by the footsteps of many generations. 
 They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; 
 the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names 
 alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in 
 later times ; (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus 
 Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 
 1 176.) I remained some little while, musing over 
 these casual reliques of antiquity, thus left like 
 wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no 
 tale but that such beings had been and had pe 
 rished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that 
 pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
 ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer 
 and even these faint records will be obliterated, 
 and the monument will cease to be a memorial. 
 Whilst I was yet looking down upon these grave 
 stones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey
 
 284 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and 
 echoing among the cloisters. It is almost start 
 ling to hear this warning of departed time sound 
 ing among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the 
 hour, which like a billow has rolled us onward 
 towards the grave. 
 
 I pursued my walk to an arched door opening 
 to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, 
 the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon 
 the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. 
 The eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns 
 of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from 
 them to such an amazing height ; and man wan 
 dering about their basis, shrunk into insignificance 
 in comparison with his own handywork. The 
 spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice pro 
 duce a profound and mysterious awe. We step 
 cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturb 
 ing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while every 
 footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters 
 among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of 
 the quiet we have interrupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the place 
 presses down upon the soul, and hushes the be 
 holder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we 
 are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 
 great men of past times, who have filled history 
 with their deeds, and the earth with their renown.
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 285 
 
 And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of 
 human ambition, to see how they are crowded 
 together and justled in the dust: what parsimony 
 is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy 
 corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, 
 when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how 
 many shapes, and forms and artifices, are devised 
 to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and 
 save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a 
 name which once aspired to occupy ages of the 
 world s thought and admiration. 
 
 I passed some time in Poet s Corner, which 
 occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross 
 ailes of the Abbey. The monuments are gene 
 rally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford 
 no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare 
 and Addison have statues erected to their memo 
 ries ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, 
 and sometimes mere inscriptions* Notwithstand 
 ing the simplicity of these memorials, I have always 
 observed that the visitors to the abbey remain 
 longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling 
 takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admira 
 tion with which they gaze on the splendid monu 
 ments of the great and the heroic. They linger 
 about these as about the tombs of friends and 
 companions ; for indeed there is something of 
 companionship between the author and the reader.
 
 286 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Other men are known to posterity only through 
 the medium of history, which is continually grow 
 ing faint and obscure : but the intercourse between 
 the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active 
 and immediate. He has lived for them more than 
 for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoy 
 ments, and shut himself up from the delights of 
 social life, that he might the more intimately com 
 mune with distant minds and distant ages. Well 
 may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been 
 purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, 
 but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well 
 may posterity be grateful to his memory ; for he 
 has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and 
 sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, 
 bright gems of thought, and golden veins of lan 
 guage. 
 
 From Poet s Corner I continued my stroll to 
 wards that part of the abbey which contains the 
 sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what 
 once were chapels, but which are now occupied by 
 the tombs and monuments of the great. At every 
 turn I met with some illustrious name; or the cog 
 nizance of some powerful house renowned in his 
 tory. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers 
 of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies; 
 some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others 
 stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 287 
 
 pressed together; warriors in armour, as if reposing 
 after battle ; prelates with croziers and mitres ; and 
 nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in 
 state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely po 
 pulous, yet where every form is so still and silent, 
 it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of 
 that fabled city, where every being had been sud 
 denly transmuted into stone. 
 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the 
 effigy of a knight in complete armour. A large 
 buckler was on one arm; the hands were pressed 
 together in supplication upon the breast; the face 
 was almost covered by the morion; the legs were 
 crossed in token of the warrior s having been en 
 gaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a cru 
 sader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so 
 strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose 
 exploits form the connecting link between fact and 
 fiction; between the history and the fairy tale. 
 There is something extremely picturesque in the 
 tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are 
 with rude armorial bearings and gothic sculpture. 
 They comport with the antiquated chapels in which 
 they are generally found ; and in considering them, 
 the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary 
 associations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous 
 pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over 
 the wars for the Sepulchre of Christ. They are the
 
 288 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 reliques of times utterly gone by; of beings passed 
 from recollection; of customs and manners with 
 which our s have no affinity. They are like objects 
 from some strange and distant land, of which we 
 have no certain knowledge, and about which all 
 our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is 
 something extremely solemn and awful in those effi 
 gies on gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of 
 death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. 
 They have an effect infinitely more impressive on 
 my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over 
 wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which 
 abound on modern monuments. I have been 
 struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old 
 sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, 
 in former times, of saying things simply, and yet 
 saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph 
 that breathes a loftier consciousness of family 
 worth and honourable lineage, than one which 
 affirms, of a noble house, that " all the brothers 
 were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poet s Corner stands 
 a monument which is among the most renowned 
 achievements of modern art; but which to me ap 
 pears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb 
 of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom 
 of the monument is represented as throwing open 
 its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 289 
 
 forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless 
 frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is 
 sinking into her affrighted husband s arms, who 
 strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the 
 blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth 
 and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
 yell of triumph, bursting from the distended jaws of 
 the spectre. But why should we thus seek to 
 clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to 
 spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? 
 The grave should be surrounded by every thing 
 that might inspire tenderness and veneration for 
 the dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. It 
 is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sor 
 row and meditation. 
 
 While wandering about these gloomy vaults and 
 silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the 
 sound of busy existence from without occasionally 
 reaches the ear; the rumbling of the passing 
 equipage; the murmur of the multitude; or per 
 haps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is 
 striking with the deathlike repose around : and it 
 has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear 
 the surges of active life hurrying along and beating 
 against the very walls of the sepulchre. 
 
 I continued in this way to move from tomb to 
 tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was 
 gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loi- 
 
 VOL. i. u
 
 290 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 terers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; 
 the sun had poured his last ray through the lofty 
 windows ; the sweet tongued bell was summoning 
 to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the 
 choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the 
 aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the 
 entrance to Henry the Seventh s chapel. A flight 
 of steps leads up to it, through a deep and gloomy, 
 but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly 
 and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
 hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 
 common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepul 
 chres. 
 
 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp 
 of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculp 
 tured detail. The very walls are wrought into 
 universal ornament, encrusted with tracery, and 
 scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of 
 saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning 
 labour of the chisel, to have been robbed of its 
 weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, 
 and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful 
 minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 
 
 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls 
 of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, 
 though with the grotesque decorations of gothic 
 architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are 
 affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 291 
 
 their scarfs and swords ; and above them are sus 
 pended their banners, emblazoned with armorial 
 bearings, and contrasting the splendour of gold and 
 purple and crimson, with the cold grey fretwork of 
 the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum 
 stands the sepulchre of its founder, his effigy, 
 with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous 
 tomb, and the whole surrounded by a lofty and su 
 perbly wrought brazen railing. 
 
 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; 
 this strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these 
 emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close be 
 side mementos which show the dust and oblivion 
 in which all must sooner or later terminate. No 
 thing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of 
 loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted 
 scene of former throng and pageant. On looking 
 round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
 esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous 
 banners that were once borne before them, my 
 imagination conjured up the scene when this hall 
 was bright with the valour and beauty of the land ; 
 glittering with the splendour of jewelled rank and 
 military array ; alive with the tread of many feet 
 and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had 
 passed away : the silence of death had settled again 
 upon the place ; interrupted only by the casual 
 chirping of birds, which had found their way into 
 u 2
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes 
 and pendants sure signs of solitariness and deser 
 tion. When I read the names inscribed on the 
 banners, they were those of men scattered far and 
 wide about the world ; some tossing upon distant 
 seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some 
 mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabi 
 nets : all seeking to deserve one more distinction 
 in this mansion of shadowy honours ; the melan 
 choly reward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel pre 
 sent a touching instance of the equality of the 
 grave ; which brings down the oppressor to a level 
 with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the 
 bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre 
 of the haughty Elizabeth, in the other is that of 
 her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not 
 an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is 
 uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with in 
 dignation at her oppressor. The walls of Eliza 
 beth s sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of 
 sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 
 
 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 
 where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly 
 through windows darkened by dust. The greater 
 part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls 
 are stained and tinted by time and weather. A 
 marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Q3 
 
 round which is an iron railing, much corroded, 
 bearing her national emblem the thistle. I was 
 weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself 
 by the monument, revolving in my mind the che 
 quered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from 
 the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the 
 distant voice of the priest repeating the evening 
 service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these 
 paused for a time, and all was hushed. The still 
 ness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradu 
 ally prevailing around, gave a deeper and more 
 solemn interest to the place : 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
 No careful father s counsel nothing s heard, 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 Dust and an endless darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep labouring organ 
 burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and re 
 doubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge 
 billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
 grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With 
 what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, 
 and breathe their awful harmony through these 
 caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal! 
 And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, 
 heaving higher and higher their accordant notes,
 
 294 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, 
 and the soft voices of the choir break out into 
 sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and war 
 ble along the roof, and seem to play about these 
 lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again 
 the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, 
 compressing air into music, and rolling it forth 
 upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! 
 What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more 
 and more dense and powerful it fills the vast pile, 
 and seems to jar the very walls the ear is stunned 
 the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is 
 winding up in full jubilee it is rising from the 
 earth to heaven the very soul seems rapt away 
 and floated upwards on this swelling tide of har 
 mony ! 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
 which a strain of music is apt sometimes to in 
 spire : the shadows of evening were gradually 
 thickening around me ; the monuments began to 
 cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant 
 clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 
 
 I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I 
 descended the flight of steps which lead into the 
 body of the building, my eye was caught by the 
 shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended 
 the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from 
 thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. 
 The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 295 
 
 and close around it are the sepulchres of various 
 kings and queens. From this eminence the eye 
 looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to 
 the chapels and chambers below, crowded with 
 tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers and 
 statesmen lie mouldering in their " beds of dark 
 ness." Close by me stood the great chair of co 
 ronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous 
 taste of a remote and gothic age. The scene 
 seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical arti 
 fice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here 
 was a type of the beginning and the end of human 
 pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step 
 from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one 
 think that these incongruous mementos had been 
 gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? 
 to shew it, even in the moment of its proudest 
 exaltation, the neglect and dishonour to which it 
 must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which en 
 circles its brow must pass away ; and it must lie 
 down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and 
 be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the 
 multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is 
 here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking 
 levity in some natures, which leads them to sport 
 with awful and hallowed things ; and there are 
 base minds, which delight to revenge on the illus 
 trious dead the abject homage and groveling ser 
 vility which they pay to the living. The coffin of
 
 296 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and 
 his remains despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; 
 the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the 
 imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the 
 Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but 
 bears some proof how false and fugitive is the ho 
 mage of mankind. Some are plundered; some 
 mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and insult 
 all more or less outraged and dishonoured ! 
 
 The last beams of day were now faintly stream 
 ing through the painted windows in the high vaults 
 above me ; the lower parts of the abbey were 
 already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The 
 chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The 
 effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the 
 marble figures of the monuments assumed strange 
 shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze 
 crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the 
 grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, 
 traversing the Poets Corner, had something 
 strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced 
 my morning s walk, and as I passed out at the 
 portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with ajar- 
 ring noise behind me, filled the whole building 
 with echoes. 
 
 I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my 
 mind of the objects I had been contemplating, 
 but found they were already falling into indistinct 
 ness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, tro-
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 phies, had all become confounded in my recollec 
 tion, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off 
 the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assem 
 blage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; 
 a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti 
 ness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It 
 is, indeed^-the empire of death ; his great shadowy 
 palace ; where he sits in state, mocking at the 
 reliques of human glory, and spreading dust and 
 forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How 
 idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! 
 Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we 
 are too much engrossed by the story of the pre 
 sent, to think of the characters and anecdotes that 
 gave interest to the past ; and each age is a vo 
 lume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The 
 idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of 
 our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted 
 by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," 
 says Sir Thomas Brown, " find their graves in our 
 short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be 
 buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; 
 fact becomes clouded with doubt and contro 
 versy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; 
 the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, 
 arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of 
 sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written 
 in the dust ? What is the security of a tomb, or 
 VOL. i. x
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of 
 Alexander the Great have been scattered to the 
 wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere 
 curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mum 
 mies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice 
 now consumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and 
 Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * 
 
 What then is to insure this pile which now 
 towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier 
 mausoleums ? The time must come when its gilded 
 vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in 
 rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the 
 sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle 
 through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from 
 the shattered tower when the garish sun-beam 
 shall break into those gloomy mansions of death ; 
 and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and 
 the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless 
 urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man 
 passes away ; his name perishes from record and 
 recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, 
 and his very monument becomes a ruin. 
 
 * Sir T. Brown. 
 THE END OF VOL. I. 
 
 London: Printed by C. Roworth, 
 Bell Yard, Temple Bar.